li 

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iiii 


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Iiii 


mmm 


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AT   LOS  ANGELES 


10  5  4      5    ' 


TULTAl  Will. 


•y^iza^  ,<r/  .?/> 


LIFE 


OF 


YOLTAIEE. 


BY 


JAMES  PARTON. 


C"est  dommage,  i  la  v^rit^,  de  passer  ime  partie  de  sa  vie  a  detruire  de  vieux  chateaux  enchanWs. 
II  vaudrait  mieux  6tablir  des  V(5rit(i8  que  d  examiner  des  mensonges ;  mais  ou  sont  les  Teritds? 

Voltaire,  1760 


VOLUME  I. 


1  -,',«> 


'  '       »  »     »      J  4 


%  1        ^ 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY. 

1881. 


83545 


Copyright,  1881, 
Br  JAMES  PARTON. 

All  rights  reserved. 


t  tec      -  *■  - 


r/ie  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge : 
Stereotj  ped  and  Printed  b3'  II.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 


I  ATTEMPT  in  these  volumes  to  exliibit  to  the  American 
people  the  most  extraordinary  of  Frenchmen,  and  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  of  human  beings. 

When  first  I  ventured,   many   years  ago,  to  think  of  this 
task,  I  soon  ceased  to  wonder  "why  a  subject  so  alluring  had 
not  been  undertaken  before  by  any  one  employing  the  whole 
\     of    the  existing  material.     Voltaire  Avas  then  buried  under  a 
■^    mountain  of  heterogeneous  record.     The  attempts  of  essayists, 
even  those  of  the  first  rank,  to  characterize  him  truly  were  in 
some  degree  frustrated  by  an  abundance  of  unsorted  informa- 
tion that  defied   all   ordinary  research.     Since  that  time  the 
CD  Voltairean  material  has  continued  to  accumulate,  and  never  so 
03   rapidly  as  during  the  last  three  years. 

^  At  this  moment,  if  I  lift  mjr  eyes  from  the  desk  on  which 
(i>  I  write,  I  see  before  me  volumes  containing  fifty  thousand 
-^  printed  pages  of  his  composition,  including  more  than  two 
^  hundred  and  sixty  separate  publications.  The  published  cor- 
respondence of  Voltaire  now  comprises  more  than  ten  thou- 
sand letters.  The  works  relating  to  him  and  his  doings  form 
a  catalogue  of  four  hundred  and  twenty-eight  entries,  which 
will  probably  be  increased  before  these  volumes  see  the  light. 
Scarcely  a  month  passes  without  some  addition  to  the  wonder- 
ful mass.  At  one  time  it  is  a  series  of  letters  found  in  a  gro- 
cer's shop,  or  rendered  accessible  by  the  death  of  an  heir  of 
one  of  his  princely  correspondents  ;  now,  an  enterprising  editor 
gives  his  readers  an  unpublished  poem  ;  recently,  Mr.  Gallatin 
deposited  in  the  library  of  the  New  York  Historical  Society 
sixty-six  pieces  of  paper  and  card  containing  words  written  or 
dictated   by  him;  and  in  September,  1880,  came  from  Paris 


/ 
/ 


11  PREFACE. 

the  announcement  of  "  Le  Sottisiev  de  Voltaire,"  from  one  of  tlie 
eighteen  volumes  of  manuscript  in  his  library  at  Petersburg. 
No  sooner  is  an  edition  of  his  works  published  than  it  is  made 
incomplete  by  a  new  discovery.  Since  the  issue  of  the  ninety- 
seven-volume  edition  in  1834,  enough  matter  has  accumulated 
to  fill  six  or  seven  volumes  more. 

Still  more  strange,  the  mass  of  his  writings,  and,  I  may 
even  say,  every  page  of  them,  has  to  this  hour  a  certain  vital- 
ity and  interest.  If  it  has  not  intrinsic  excellence,  it  possesses 
the  interest  of  an  obsolete  kind  of  agreeable  folly ;  if  it  is  not 
truth,  it  is  a  record  of  error  that  instructs  or  amuses.  He  was 
mistaken  in  supposing  that  no  man  could  go  to  posterity  laden 
with  so  much  baggage.  In  some  cases  it  is  the  baggage  that 
floats  him,  and  many  readers  of  to-day  find  his  prefaces,  notes, 
and  introductions  more  entertaining  than  the  work  hidden  in 
the  midst  of  them.  Nearly  every  page  of  this  printed  matter 
contains  at  least  an  atom  of  biography,  and  I  can  fairly  claim 
to  have  had  my  eye  upon  it,  indexed  it,  and  given  it  considera- 
tion. 

At  the  elad  of  this  volume  will  be  found  a  list  of  the  pub- 
lications relating  to  Voltaire  (Appendix  I.),  and  this  is  fol- 
lowed by  the  catalogue  of  his  own  works  (Appendix  II.)  ; 
both  lists  being  arranged  in  the  order  of  their  publication, 
and  the  titles  translated  into  English. 

The  reader  is  probably  aware  that  every  circumstance  in  the 
histoi'y  of  this  man,  from  the  date  of  his  birth  to  the  resting- 
place  of  his  bones,  is  matter  of  controversy.  If  I  had  paused 
to  state  the  various  versions  of  each  event  and  the  interpreta- 
tions put  upon  each  action,  this  work  would  have  been  ten  vol- 
umes instead  of  two.  It  would  have  been,  like  many  other 
biographies,  not  a  history  of  the  man,  but  a  history  of  the 
struggles  of  the  author  in  getting  at  the  man.  Generally, 
therefore,  I  have  given  only  the  obvious  or  most  probable 
truth,  and  have  often  refrained  from  even  mentioning  anec- 
dotes and  statements  that  I  knew  to  be  groundless.  Why  pro- 
long the  life  of  a  falsehood  merely  for  the  sake  of  refuting  it  ? 

The  Voltaire  of  these  volumes  is  the  nearest  to  the  true  one 
that  I  have  been  able  to  gather  and  construct.     I  think  the 


I 


PREFACE.  iii 

man  is  to  be  found  in  these  pages  delineated  by  himself.  But 
he  was  such  an  enormous  personage  that  another  writer, 
equally  intent  upon  truth,  could  find  in  the  mass  of  his  re- 
mains quite  another  Voltaire.  I  received  once  from  Paris,  in 
the  same  parcel,  two  books  about  him,  both  written,  as  it 
seemed,  by  honest,  able,  and  resolute  men.  One  was  the  work 
of  the  Abbe  Maynard,  a  canon  of  Poictiers,  who  ended  his  two 
thick  volumes  of  laborious  vituperation  by  saying  that  Voltaire 
was  a  mere  "  monkey  of  genius,  who  amused  and  diverted  by 
his  funny  tricks."  The  other  work,  "  Le  Vrai  Voltaire,"  by 
Edouard  de  Pompery,  spoke  of  him  as  the  most  virtuous  man 
of  his  age,  because  he  did  the  most  good  to  his  kind,  and  be- 
cause there  was  in  his  heart  the  most  burning  love  of  justice 
and  truth.  "  Voltaire,"  this  author  continued,  "  was  the  best 
Christian  of  his  time,  the  first  and  the  most  glorious  disciple 
of  Jesus." 

There  was  space  in  Voltaire  to  include  these  extremes.  He 
was  faulty  enough  to  gratify  the  prejudice  of  that  honest  priest ; 
he  was  good  enough  to  kindle,  justify,  and  sustain  the  enthusi- 
asm of  that  young  philanthropist. 


CONTENTS. 


-»- 


CHAPTER  L 

ANCE8TOE9         ^ 

CHAPTER  11. 
Notaries  in  France 12 

CHAPTER  HI. 
Birth  and  Home  ..." 16 

CHAPTER  IV. 
His  Childhood 21 

CHAPTER  V. 
At  School 29 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  School  Poet 40 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Wild  Oats •"'0 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Head  over  Ears  in  Love 59 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Solicitor'.s  Clerk 69 

CHAPTER  X. 
At  the  Chateau  of  Saint-Ange 75 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Exiled  for  an  Epigram 83 

CHAPTER  XII. 
In  the  Bastille 95 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XIIL 
Eleven  Months  in  Prison .  109 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
"  (Edipe  "  Pekeormed .  116 

CHAPTER  XV. 
From  Chateau  to  Chateau 127 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
Beginnings  op  his  Fortune 139 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
Journey  to  Holland 145 

CHAPTER  XVin. 
"La  Henriade"  Published 158 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Voltaire  a  Courtier 171 

CHAPTER  XX. 
In  the  Bastille  Again 184 

CHAPTER  XXL 
,|      First  Impressions  of  England 195 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
\  Residence  in  England 209 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Return  to  France 237 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
Pursuit  of  Literature  under  Difficulties 247 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
The  Convulsionist  Miracles 260 

CHAPTER   XXVL 
The  Tender  "Zaire" 271 

CHAPTER   XXVIL 
The  English  Letters  Published 284 


CONTENTS.  vii 

CHAPTER   XXVIII. 
Madame  du  Chatelet  and  hee  Chateau 298 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Man  of  Business 314 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
Literary  Work  at  Cirey 331 

CHAPTER   XXXI. 
Frederic,  Prince  Royal  of  Prussia 343 

CHAPTER  XXXIL 
Flight  into  Holland 353 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
Voltaire  and  Science 363 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Visitors  at  Cirey        ....  376 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
The  Abbe  Desfontaines 397 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Frederic  becomes  King  of  Prussia 414 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
First  Meeting  of  Voltaire  and  Frederic 429 

CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 
Voltaire  as  Amateur  Diplomatist 43.5 

CHAPTER   XXXIX. 
"  Mahomet  "  and  "  Merope  " 449 

CHAPTER  XL. 
Voltaire  and  Madame  Study  History  together        ....  464 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
Amateur  Diplomatist  Again 475 

CHAPTER  XLIL 
Voltaire  at  the  Court  of  France 486 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   XLIII. 
Oct  op  Favor  at  Court 513 

CHAPTER  XLIV.             ; '. 
Precipitate  Flight  from  Court 522 

CHAPTER   XLV. 
Death  of  Madame  du  Chatelet 547 

CHAPTER   XLVI. 
The  Widower 570 

CHAPTER  XL VII. 
Householder  in  Paris 577 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
Settling  in  Prussia 597 

APPENDIX  I. 

List  of  Publications  relating  to  Voltaire  and  to  his  Works,  ar- 
ranged according  to  the  Dates  of  Publication  so  far  as  known, 
and  with  their  Titles  translated  into  English    ....  615 

APPENDIX  II. 

A  List  of  the  Works  of  Voltaire,  in  the  Order,  so  far  as  known, 
OF  their  Publication,  with  THE  Titles  translated  INTO  English   .  632 


LIFE    OF   VOLTAIPvE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ANCESTORS. 

Francois-Marie  Arouet,  who  at  the  age  of  twenty-four 
assumed  the  name  of  Voltaire,  was  born  at  Paris  on  Sunday, 
November  21,  1694. 

At  that  time  Louis  XIV.  liad  been  for  fifty-one  years  styled 
King  of  France,  and  had  twenty-one  years  to  live.  William 
and  Mary  reigned  in  England.  Prussia  was  a  dukedom. 
Charles  XII.  of  Sweden  was  a  good  and  studious  boy  of  twelve 
under  his  father's  tutelage,  and  Peter  I.  of  Russia,  twelve 
years  Czar,  had  not  begun  to  build  the  present  capital  of  tlie 
Russian  Empire.  The  great  Newton,  still  in  the  prime  of  his 
years,  liad  done  the  immortal  part  of  his  work,  and  was  about 
to  become  Master  of  the  Mint.  Racine  lived,  the  first  name 
in  the  literature  of  the  Continent,  and  Dryden,  the  head  of 
English  literature,  was  translating  Virgil.  Pope  was  six  years 
of  age. 

Fran Qois- Marie  was  the  first  of  the  Arouets  to  acquire  dis- 
tinction, and  he  neither  knew  nor  cared  for  his  pedigree.  In 
one  of  the  last  weeks  of  his  life,  when  a  local  genealogist 
wrote  to  him  to  say  that  two  cities  of  old  Poitou  were  con- 
tending for  the  honor  of  having  nourished  his  ancestors,  he 
replied  by  a  jocular  allusion  to  the  seven  cities  that  claimed 
to  be  the  birthplace  of  Homer,  and  added,  "  I  have  no  way  of 
reconciling  this  dispute."  ^  In  his  vast  correspondence,  all 
topics  are  more  frequently  touched  upon  than  that  of  his  own 
family  and  origin.  In  old  age  he  wrote  once  to  a  neighbor 
who  meditated  buying  a  piece  of  land  in  which  he  held  a  life 
interest,  "  Now,  sir,  I  give  you  notice  that  I  count  upon  living 
to  the  age  of  eighty-two  at  least,  since  my  grandfather,  who 
1  Voltaire  to  Du  Moustier  de  La  Fond,  April  7,  1778 


10  LIB^E   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

was  as  dried  up  as  I  am,  and  wrote  neither  verse  nor  prose, 
lived  to  eiglity-tliree."  ^ 

This  dried-up  grandfather  was  Francois  Arouet,  of  Paris,  a 
retired  draper,  living  in  1666  in  his  own  house,  Rue  St.  Denis, 
with  his  two  children,  Marie  and  Fran^-ois.  Country  born 
and  bred,  he  had  come  up  to  Paris  in  early  Hfe,  probably  with 
some  capital,  and,  having  establislied  himself  in  business,  had 
thriven,  married,  and  gained  a  competence.  It  was  a  time 
when  a  Paris  tradestnau  could  comfortably  retire  upon  a  capi- 
tal of  a  hundred  thousand  francs. 

The  family  was  ancient  and  respectable.  The  earliest  an- 
cestor of  whom  anything  is  known  was  Heleuus  Arouet,  who 
was  living  in  1525  at  a  village  in  the  valley  of  the  Tliouet,  a 
tributary  of  the  Loire,  not  far  froui  Poitiers,  and  about  two 
hundred  miles  southwest  of  Paris.  He  was  a  tanner  by  trade, 
married  a  tanner's  daughter,  and  brought  up  one  of  his  sons 
a  tanner.  He  possessed  and  transmitted  two  small  estates. 
Probably  the  family  had  been  established  in  the  region  for 
generations  :  an  ancestor  may  have  witnessed  the  battle  of 
Poitiers  in  1356,  whence  the  Black  Prince  bore  away  captive 
to  England  John,  King  of  France.  There  is  no  part  of  France 
more  purely  and  primitively  French  than  that  portion  of  the 
old  province  of  Poitou.  A  grandson  of  this  Helenus  Arouet, 
who  was  also  named  Helenus,  passed  his  days  at  the  little 
town  of  St.  Loup,  in  the  same  neighborhood,  where  he  became 
the  father  of  five  cliildren,  and  inherited  one  of  his  grand- 
father's small  estates.  Francois,  the  retired  cloth  merchant 
of  Paris,  was  one  of  his  sons.  After  serving  the  usual  long 
apprenticeship  to  a  weaver  in  a  village  of  the  same  neighbor- 
hood, Francois  Arouet  passed  some  years  in  business  at  his 
native  city  of  St.  Loixp,  and  then  made  a  bold  stroke  to  im- 
prove his  circumstances  in  removing  to  Paris.  This  he  did 
about  the  year  1621,  when  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  of  New  Eng- 
land were  starving  through  their  first  summer  at  Plymouth. 
When  he  died,  in  1667,  a  dried-up  grandfather  of  eighty-three, 
his  son  Fran9ois  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  his  daughter 
Marie  was  twenty.  She  married  Mathurin  JNIarchand,  a  "  pur- 
veyor to  Monsieur,  the  brother  of  the  king." 

Besides  these  lineal  ancestors  of  Voltaire,  we  have  slight 
1  2  Lettres  Inedites  de  Voltaire,  163.     Paris,  1857. 


ANCESTORS.  11 

occasional  notices  of  otlier  connections  and  relations,  all  in- 
dicating the  respectable  boui-geois  rank  of  the  family.  He 
speaks  himself,  in  his  '*  Charles  XII."  (Book  V.),  of  deriving 
important  information  from  "  the  letters  of  M.  Bru,  my  re- 
lation, first  dragoman  (^drogman,  he  spells  it)  at  the  Ottoman 
Porte."  Jean  Arouet,  a  near  relation  of  his  father,  was  the 
apothecary  of  St.  Loup  for  many  years,  and  Samuel  Arouet,  an- 
other relation,  was  the  notary  of  the  same  place.  But  there 
is  no  trace  of  a  literary  man  in  any  record  of  the  family  yet 
discovered  :  for  that  Ren 6  Arouet,  notary  and  poet  of  Poi- 
tou,  who  died  in  1499,  and  who  has  been  reckoned  among  the 
progenitors  of  Voltaire  for  a  century  past,  proves  to  be  Rend 
Adouet.^ 

It  was  then  not  alone  the  extremely  dry  grandfather  of  Vol- 
taire who  wrote  neither  prose  nor  verse.  No  known  Arouet 
has  ever  written  except  Frangois-Marie  Arouet,  the  subject 
of  this  work.  A  thriving,  painstaking  race  they  seem  to  have 
been,  with  some  spirit  of  enterprise  among  them  ;  trustworthy, 
vivacious,  irascible,  but  not  gifted,  nor  interested  in  the  prod- 
ucts of  the  gifted.  The  occupations  often  chosen  by  them  — 
tanner,  weaver,  draper,  apothecary,  purveyor,  notary  —  are 
such  as  required  exactness,  fidelity,  patience,  and  contentment 
with  moderate  gains. 

St.  Loup,  in  or  near  which  for  many  generations  the  Arou- 
ets  exercised  such  useful  and  homely  vocations,  is  an  ancient 
little  city,  the  centre  of  the  wine,  leather,  and  wool  trade  of 
the  vicinity,  containing  at  present  seventeen  hundred  inhab- 
itants. Sheep,  cattle,  asses,  and  the  vine,  then  as  now,  made 
the  wealth  of  the  region  round  about,  and  the  trades  of  the 
Arouets,  particularly  tanner,  weaver,  and  draper,  are  still 
among  those  that  most  flourish  there.  In  portions  of  the  de- 
partment, now  named  Deux-Sevres,  industry  is  almost  confined, 
says  Reclus,  to  tanning  and  weaving,  and  to  the  breeding  of 
horses,  asses,  and  mules.  During  the  Revolution,  St.  Loup, 
mindful  of  its  Arouets  and  their  famous  descendant,  changed 
its  ancient  name  to  Voltaire.  But  the  new  appellation  did  not 
adhere.  At  present  they  who  would  find  the  name  upon  the 
map  of  the  world  must  look  for  it  among  the  possessions  of 
Great  Britain.  Cape  Voltaire  is  a  headland  of  Australia. 
1  La  Jeuncsse  dc  Voltiiiie,  par  Desuoiresterrea,  page  6. 


CHAPTER   IL 

NOTARIES  IN  FRANCE. 

P  Francois  Aeouet,  the  father  of  Voltaire,  was  a  Paris  no- 
tary in  large  practice.  Left  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
joint  heir  with  his  sister  Marie  of  a  considerable  estate,  he 
:could  choose  an  occupation  deemed  more  eligible  than  that  of 
'draper,  by  which  his  father  had  thriven.  He  became,  therefore, 
by  purchase,  one  of  the  hundred  and  thirteen  notaries  licensed 
in  Paris  under  Louis  XIV. 

In  the  Latin  nations  of  Europe,  as  frequenter's  of  the  Ital- 
ian opera  and  all  readers  of  French  and  Spanish  literature 
must  have  observed,  notaries  are  more  important  functionaries 
than  they  are  now  with  us.  Columbus  and  the  other  naviga- 
tors of  his  age  had  notaries  with  them  to  witness  and  attest 
their  taking  possession  of  discovered  lands.  A  royal  notary 
witnessed  the  king's  signature  when  he  gave  a  coronet  or  re- 
nounced a  crown.  Readers  will  readily  recall  the  notary  of 
comed}^  and  opera,  who  enters  in  the  closing  scene,  — an  odd 
figure  in  a  black  robe,  with  long,  curling  wig,  and  a  hat  of  any 
preposterous  and  unauthorized  shape  which  the  resources  of 
the  theatre  can  supply.  He  advances  to  a  table  provided  for 
him,  and  salutes  the  company  with  ofl&cial  gayety  or  official 
gloom,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  service  he  is  about  to 
render.  He  is  the  personage  waited  for,  and  his  entrance 
often  crowns  the  occasion  ;  for  in  France,  as  in  Italy  and 
Spain,  no  betrothal,  marriage  contract,  will,  agreement,  or  rec- 
ord has  legal  validity  unless  it  bears  the  attestation  of  a  li- 
censed notary.  Hence  his  importance  in  life  and  his  utility 
in  literature.  The  entrance  of  the  notary,  followed  by  his 
clerk,  both  robed  in  black,  deepens  the  gloom  of  a  tragic 
finale ;  and  the  same  personages  are  available  for  the  farcical 
element  in  a  romantic  drama,  and  add  comic  force  to  an  act  of 
Moliere. 


NOTARIES  IN  FRANCE.  13 

In  countries  where  few  can  write,  but  all  are  subject  to  the 
same  laws,  some  such  practitioner  as  the  Roman  notarius^  the 
French  notaire,  the  English  notary,  is  indispensable ;  and  we 
should  still  find  him  so  in  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain 
if  most  of  us  had  not  learned  to  write  our  documents  for  our- 
selves. The  father  of  John  Milton  was  a  London  notary  in 
the  reign  of  James  I.,  and  the  business  was  then  so  lucrative 
in  England  that  he  earned  by  it  the  estate  that  enabled  him  to 
give  his  son  every  educational  advantage  which  the  wealthiest 
nobleman  could  have  procured  for  an  heir,  including  twenty 
consecutive  years  of  study  and  fifteen  months  of  foreign  travel. 
All  that  a  London  notary  was  in  1620,  when  John  Milton  was 
a  boy,  a  Paris  notary  was  when  Voltaire  was  born,  seventy- 
four  years  after. 

Under  Louis  XIV.,  there  was  required  to  be  one  notary  in 
every  parish  of  the  kingdom  that  contained  sixty  households ; 
two  in  the  smaller  market  towns,  from  four  to  ten  in  the 
larger  ;  twenty  in  towns  having  a  parliament,  and  one  hundred 
and  thirteen  in  Paris  :  so  many,  but  no  more.  The  notaries 
were  commissioned  by  the  king ;  they  were  allowed  to  exhibit 
over  their  door  the  royal  arms  as  a  sign ;  they  could  stand  in 
the  exercise  of  their  vocation  at  the  door  of  the  king's  cabinet. 
As  most  charges  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  were  purchasable, 
a  notary  could  buy,  sell,  give,  and  bequeath  his  business,  pro- 
vided the  recipient  was  a  Catholic  Frenchman  of  twenty-five 
years,  had  satisfied  the  conscription,  had  studied  the  profes- 
sion of  notary  six  years,  and  served  one  year  as  a  notary's  first 
clerk. 

Besides  the  more  interesting  duties  mentioned  above,  nota- 
ries drew,  attested,  and  registered  such  documents  as  leases, 
deeds,  transfers,  agreements  of  all  kinds,  papers  relating  to  an- 
nuities, bankruptcies,  gifts,  reversions,  apprenticeships,  and  all 
other  services.  Their  legal  fee  was  very  small.  The  old  nota- 
rial manuals  enumerate  fifty-one  acts  for  which  a  notary  could 
charge  but  one  franc,  and  these  comprised  nearly  all  that 
W'Ould  commonly  be  required  in  the  country  or  in  country 
towns.  There  were  two  fees  allowed  of  two  francs,  seven  of 
three  francs,  three  of  five  francs,  one  of  ten  francs,  four  of  fif- 
teen francs,  one  of  twenty-five  francs.  Reading  over  the  list 
of  these  moderate  fees,  we  wonder  how  a  notary,  even  as  busy 


14  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

and  thriving  as  the  father  of  Voltaire,  could  have  gained  a 
revenue  of  several  thousand  francs  a  year,  until  we  come  to  the 
transactions  for  which  he  was  allowed  to  charge  a  percentage 
of  the  sum  involved.  If  a  gentleman  had  money  to  lend,  it 
was  to  his  notary  that  he  applied  to  find  a  borrower,  and  the 
notary  received  a  percentage  of  the  amount.  The  lending  of 
money  and  the  purchase  of  annuities  were  important  branches 
of  notarial  business,  the  judicious  cultivation  of  which  ren- 
dered the  notary  himself  a  capitalist,  and  enabled  him  to  use 
to  his  own  signal  advantage  the  knowledge  of  families  and  es- 
tates which  it  belonged  to  his  vocation  to  possess.  A  very 
large  proportion  of  the  business  done  among  us  by  solicitors, 
attorneys,  conveyancers,  brokers,  note  discounters,  life  insur- 
ers, and  confidential  family  lawyers  was  and  is  performed  in 
France  by  notaries. 

The  profession  bears  an  honorable  name,  which  is  justified 
by  the  excellent  character  of  its  members.  Their  commission 
being  an  estate,  which  can  be  sold,  transferred,  or  bequeathed, 
but  which  can  also  be  lost  by  misconduct,  notaries  are  subject 
to  that  force  and  composition  of  motives  to  do  right  which  ex- 
perience shows  to  be  generally  necessary  and  generally  suffi- 
cient. From  the  earliest  ages  the  profession  has  increased  in 
importance,  even  to  the  present  time,  when  a  notary,  in  such 
practice  as  Voltaire's  father  had,  gains  a  quarter  of  a  million 
francs  a  year,  and  when  there  is  a  stately  edifice  in  Paris,  called 
The  Chamber  of  Notaries,  which  is  in  fact  the  real-estate  ex- 
change of  France,  as  well  as  the  Paris  notaries'  rendezvous. 
The  profession  boasts  a  literature.  Even  in  a  New  York 
library  is  a  massive  volume  of  816  pages,  "  Nouveau  Manuel 
des  Notaires,"  published  in  1818,  and  "  Le  Parfait  Notaire," 
in  three  larger  volumes,  published  in  1821. 

The  rank  of  a  French  notary  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  is 
difficult  to  fix,  because,  strictly  speaking,  he  had  no  rank, 
either  in  the  legal  profession  or  in  the  social  scale.  In  Roman 
times  he  was  a  slave,  as  most  men  were  who  performed  useful 
offices.  A  French  author  discovered,  some  years  since,  among 
stray  parchments,  an  ordinance  of  Philippe  le  Bel,  dated  1304, 
which  forbade  members  of  this  profession  to  exercise  tlie  bar- 
ber's trade,  because,  being  the  depositary  of  family  secrets,  a 
notary  ought  not  to  be  trusted  with  the  use  of  a  barber's  im- 


NOTARIES  IN  FRANCE.  15 

plements,  which  then  included  the  lancet  and  the  knife,  as  well 
as  the  razor  and  the  shears.  The  ordinance  added  that,  since 
the  business  of  a  notary  did  not  furnish  the  means  of  subsist- 
ence, he  could  exercise  any  trade  except  that  of  barber.^  As 
life  grew  more  complicated  in  France,  the  business  of  notaries 
increased,  until  their  importance  had  far  outgrown  their  tech- 
nical rank,  and  given  them  a  standing  not  unlike  that  of  a  so- 
licitor in  an  English  town,  whose  tin  boxes  are  stuffed  with 
family  papers,  and  who  knows  the  secrets  of  half  the  county 
families. 

In  a  satirical  romance,  published  in  Paris  when  Voltaire  was 
a  boy,  there  is  a  "  tariff  or  valuation  of  matches,"  designed,  as 
the  author  says,  to  exhibit  the  "corruption  of  the  age  which 
had  introduced  the  custom  of  marrying  one  sack  of  money  to 
another  sack  of  money."  This  table,  burlesque  though  it  be, 
is  the  burlesque  of  a  not  unskillful  hand,  and  it  may  help  us  to 
understand  the  social  importance  of  notaries  in  Paris  then. 
According  to  this  authority,  a  girl  who  had  a  dowry  of  two 
thousand  to  ten  thousand  francs  was  a  match  for  a  retail 
trader,  a  lawyer's  clerk,  or  a  bailiff.  A  dowry  of  ten  to  twelve 
thousand  francs  justified  a  maiden  in  aspiring  to  a  dealer  in 
silk,  a  draper,  an  innkeeper,  a  secretary  to  a  great  lord.  A 
young  lady  of  twelve  to  twenty  thousand  francs  was  a  match 
for  a  clerk  of  court,  an  attorney,  a  court  registrar,  A  NOTARY. 
She  who  possessed  twenty  to  thirty  thousand  francs  might 
look  as  high  as  an  advocate  or  a  government  officer  of  consid- 
erable rank.  Higher  grades  in  the  law  and  government  serv- 
ice could  be  matched  by  dowries  rising  from  thirty  thousand 
francs  to  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  ;  which  last  could  be 
fairly  wedded  to  "  a  real  marquis,"  a  president  of  a  parliament, 
a  peer  of  France,  a  duke.^ 

By  courtesy  a  notary  was  called  maitre,  a  word  which  has 
as  many  shades  of  meaning  as  our  word  master,  and,  like 
master,  is  not  always  a  title  of  honor.  Applied  to  a  notary, 
it  was  a  flattering  intimation  that  he,  too,  belonged  to  the 
law,  —  la  robe,  —  which  had  its  noblesse,  its  retainers,  and  its 
servants  of  many  grades. 

1  Histoire  de  la  Detention  des  Philosoplies  et  Gens  de  Lettres  b,  la  Bastille,  etc., 
par  J.  Deloi-t.     Paris,  1829.     Vol.  ii.  p.  11. 

2  Le  Roman  Bourgeois.     Paris,  1712.     Page  18. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BIRTH  AND  HOME. 

r  Maitee  Feancois  Aeouet  is  known  to  have  been  a  com- 
petent  notary  ;  but,  in  accordance  with  the  system  into  which 
I  he  was  born,  he  obtained  every  step  in  his  profession  by  pur- 
i  chase.  In  1675,  when  he  was  twenty-six  years  of  age,  his 
seven  years'  apprenticeship  being  accomplished,  he  bought  for 
ten  thousand  francs,  duly  paid  to  his  predecessor,  the  place  of 
notary  to  the  city  court  of  Paris,  called  the  Chatelet.  The 
sum  was  large  for  that  primitive  day,  before  John  Law  had 
inflated  the  mind,  as  well  as  the  money,  of  France.  We  can 
get  an  idea  of  its  value  from  one  of  Madame  de  Maintenon's 
letters  of  1680,  in  which  she  says  that  her  brother  and  his 
wife  kept  house  handsomely  in  Paris,  paying  rent,  having 
a  good  dinner  every  day,  keeping  ten  domestics,  two  coach- 
men, and  four  horses,  upon  nine  thousand  francs  a  year,  of 
which  they  allowed  three  thousand  for  the  theatre,  cards, 
fancies,  and  "magnificences."  In  other  words,  Maitre  Arouet's 
ten  thousand  francs  was  equivalent  to  at  least  sixty  thousand 
francs  of  the  present  time. 
r^  A  thriving  young  notary,  with  a  good  office,  several  im- 
I  portant  clients,  and  some  capital  of  his  own  to  lend  them, 
could  marry  out  of  his  sphere,  even  under  Louis  XIV.  In 
1683,  when  he  had  reached  the  prudent  age  of  thirty-four, 
Maitre  Arouet  married  Mademoiselle  Marguerite  d'Aumard, 
of  a  noble  family  of  Poitou,  the  ancient  province  of  the 
Arouets.  Nicholas  d'Aumard,  her  father,  had  held  a  post  of 
dignity  in  the  parliament  of  his  province,  and  her  brother 
an  office  of  some  authority  under  the  king.  Their  marriage 
contract,  which  is  still  preserved  and  accessible,  indicates 
that  her  rank  had  its  influence  upon  the  terms  of  the  union  ; 
she  brinffing  to  him  a  smaller  dowry  than  he  might  have 
demanded  from  an  equal,  and  he  making  for  her,  in  case  sh<^ 


BIRTH  AND   HOME.  17 

survived  him,  a  more  liberal  provision  than  was  usual  in  his 
rank.  A  French  author,  who  has  recently  read  the  docu- 
ment, reports  that  the  marriage,  on  the  part  of  the  husband, 
was  far  from  being  "  a  marriage  of  money."  ^ 

Of  this  lady,  the  mother  of  Voltaire,  we  know  too  little.; 
In  all  the  multifarious  writings  of  her  son,  I  find  but  five 
meagre  lines  about  his  mother,  though  she  lived  till  he  was; 
seven  years  of  age.  Only  twice  in  his  works,  I  believe, 
occur  the  words  ma  mere,  when  he  means  his  own  mother; 
and  he  records  of  her  three  particulars,  not  unimportant, 
but  all  needing  explanation.  One  is  that  Ninon  de  Lenclos 
had  formerly  known  ma  mere ;  another  is  that  ma  mere  had 
been  much  the  friend  of  the  Abb<^  de  Chateauneuf,  Ninon's 
last  lover ;  and  the  third  that  ma  mere  had  once  seen  the 
poet  Boileau,  and  said  of  him  that  he  was  "  a  good  book  and 
a  silly  man."  ^ 

As  Fran^'ois  Arouet  was  notary  both  to  Ninon  and  to 
Boileau,  his  name  still  being  legible  upon  the  poet's  will, 
his  wife's  acquaintance  with  both  may  have  been  accidental 
and  momentary.  The  notarial  office  was,  for  some  years, 
only  a  room  in  the  famil}'^  abode.  But  the  gay,  the  witty, 
the  worldly  Abbe  de  Chateauneuf,  we  know,  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  mother  and  of  the  house,  —  a  fact  which  goes  far 
to  prove  that  the  incongruous  element  now  introduced  into 
the  ancient  line  of  the  steady-going  Arouets  was  brought 
to  it  by  Marguerite  d'Aumard,  of  the  old  Poitou  noblesse. 

The    marriage  was    too  fruitful   for  the  delicate   mother's' 
welfare.     Within  ten  months,  twin    boys  were  born,  one  of^ 
whom  soon  died,  and  the  other,  Armand  by  name,  lived  to' 
succeed    his    father.      Less    than  thirteen  months  after  was 
born  Marguerite-Catherine,  the   sister  whom  Voltaire  loved, 
mother  of  Madame  Denis.     In  twenty  months  more,  Robert 
was  born,  who  died  in  infancy.     On  Sunday,  November  21, 
1694,    after  an   interval    of   five    years,    the  child  was  born: 
who  named    himself,  twenty-four  years  after,   Voltaire,   but 
who    received,    on    Monday,    November    22,    1694,    at    the 
baptismal  font  of  a  church  in  Paris,  the  name  of  Fran^ois^ 
Marie. 

1  Jeunesse  de  Voltaire,  page  9. 

2  63  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  page  168.     80  CEuvres   de  Voltaire,  page  300. 

VOT,.    I.  2 


18  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

He  seems  to  have  always  supposed  that  lie  was  born 
February  20,  1694 ;  but  the  baptismal  register,  drawn  under 
the  eye,  and  perhaps  by  the  hand,  of  his  own  father,  one  of 
the  first  notaries  of  Paris,  bears  date  November  22d,  and 
adds,  "  Born  the  day  previous."  A  letter  has  also  been 
recently  discovered  which  removes  the  last  doubt.  A  Poitou 
cousin,  who  wrote  home  from  Paris,  November  24,  1694, 
gives  this  item  of  family  news  :  "  Father,  our  cousins  have 
another  son,  born  three  days  ago.  Madame  Arouet  will  give 
me  the  christening  cakes  for  you  and  the  family.  She  has 
I  been  very  sick  ;  but  it  is  hoped  she  will  now  mend.  The 
'  child  has  but  a  weakly  appearance,  resulting  from  the  mother's 
low  condition."  ^ 

^     He  was  the  last  child  of  his  parents,  and  when  he  was  born 
I  his  brother  Armand  was  ten  years  old,  and  his  sister  Margue- 

frite  nine. 
He  was  born  into  an  affluent  and,  as  it  appears,  a  cheerful 
and  agreeable  home.  His  father,  in  the  prime  of  life,  had  ac- 
'  quired  the  title  of  counselor  to  the  king,  as  well  as  the  post  of 
notary  to  the  Chatelet.  This  latter  place,  owing  apparently  to 
the  increase  of  his  private  practice,  he  sold  in  1692.  Among 
his  clients  were  the  heads  of  several  historic  houses,  ducal  and 
other.  "  Many  a  time,"  says  the  Duke  de  St.  Simon,  "  I  have 
seen  him  [Maitre  Arouet]  bring  papers  for  my  father  to 
sign  ;  "  and  again,  "  He  was  my  father's  notary,  and  mine  as 
long  as  he  lived."  ^  The  Duke  de  Sully,  the  Duke  de  Praslin, 
the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  the  Count  de  Morangi^s,  are  men- 
tioned among  his  clients  ;  upon  whom,  we  may  infer,  he  waited 
assiduously  in  their  houses,  but  received  ordinary  clients  at  his 
own  abode  in  "  the  city,"  decorated  and  designated  by  the  royal 
arms.  The  Duchess  de  St.  Simon  held  one  of  his  children  at 
the  font,  with  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  by  her  side,  and  there  are 
other  indications  that  Maitre  Arouet  was  the  man  of  confi- 
dence to  his  noble  clients,  and  held  in  high  esteem  by  them. 
Always  thriving,  he  bought  in  1701  another  office,  —  one  more 
lucrative  than  that  of  notary  to  the  Chatelet,  if  not  of  more 
importance. 

There  was  then  a  certain  ancient  high  court  in  Paris,  called 

1  Jeunesse  de  Voltaire,  page  4. 

2  13  M^moires  de  St.  Simon,  55.  14  Memoires  de  St.  Simon,  10,    Paris.     187*. 


BIRTH  AND   HOME.  19 

the  Chamber  of  Accounts,  which  stood  above  all  the  collectors 
of  the  revenue,  decided  questions  relating  to  the  king's  claims 
and  dues,  and,  in  general,  saw  that  the  royal  treasury  received 
no  detriment.  Duplicates  of  documents  relating  to  titles,  suc- 
cessions, reversions,  and  estates  were  stored  away  in  the  pile 
of  ancient  structures  in  which  it  had  its  seat.  It  performed, 
or  professed  to  perform,  much  that  is  done  with  us  by  auditors, 
registrars,  the  court  of  claims,  and  investigating  committees. 
Being  an  ancient  court  of  an  ancient  monarchy,  and  having  in 
charge  the  king's  most  vital  interest,  it  had  grown  to  prepos- 
terous proportions,  and  gave  pretext  to  such  an  extraordinary 
number  of  snug  offices,  useful  only  to  the  incumbents  of  the 
same,  that  the  Chamhre  des  Comptes  became  a  by-word  in 
France  for  hoary  abuse  and  cumbrous  inadequacy,  like  the 
English  Court  of  Chancery  at  a  later  day. 

It  was  an  office  in  this  ancient  court  which  Maitre  Arouet 
bought  in  1701,  and  which,  after  holding  for  the  rest  of  his 
life,  he  resigned  to  his  eldest  son,  Armand,  who  enjoyed  it  as 
long  as  he  lived.  The  office  was  that  of  "  payer  of  fees  to  the 
Chamber  of  Accounts."  At  that  period,  litigants  in  French 
courts  paid  fees  to  the  judges  who  tried  their  causes.  It  was 
the  duty  of  Maitre  Arouet  to  collect  such  fees  in  the  court  to 
which  he  was  attached,  and  pay  them  to  the  judges,  receiving 
at  the  same  time  a  fee  for  his  own  services.  Either  the  causes 
were  numerous  or  the  fees  were  large,  for  it  is  a  matter  of  rec- 
ord that  the  revenue  of  this  office  in  the  year  1700  was  thir- 
teen thousand  francs. 

As  he  retained  always  his  private  notarial  practice,  Maitre 
Arouet  could  henceforth  be  reckoned  among  the  opulent  bour- 
geois of  Paris,  his  annual  income  being,  as  probable  tradition 
reports,  twenty-four  thousand  francs.  From  an  attested  docu- 
ment we  learn  that  he  possessed  a  country-house  at  Chatenay, 
a  beautiful  village  five  miles  from  the  city.  That  he  kept 
a  gardener  his  undutiful  son  has  told  us.  "  I  had  a  father 
formerly,"  wrote  Voltaire,  in  1772,  to  La  Harpe,  "  who  was  as 
bad  a  scold  as  Grichard  [in  the  comedy  of  the  "  Grondeur"]. 
One  day,  after  he  had  horribly  and  without  cause  scolded  his 
gardener,  and  had  almost  beaten  him,  he  said  to  him,  'Get 
out,  you  rascal !  I  wish  you  may  find  a  master  as  patient  as  I 
am.'     I  took  my  father  to  see  the  '  Grondeur,'  having  before- 


20  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

hand  asked  the  actor  to  add  those  identical  words  to  his  part ; 
and  my  good  father  corrected  himself  a  little."  ^ 

This  anecdote  of  the  prosperous,  irascible  bourgeois  is  nearly 
all  the  light  which  the  writings  of  the  son  cast  upon  the  fa- 
ther. He  mentions  more  than  once  tbat  on  a  certain  occasion 
his  father  saw  the  aged  poet.  Corneille,  and  even  took  wine 
with  him.  The  young  notary  was  no  more  pleased  with  the 
old  dramatist  than  his  wife  with  Boileau.  "  My  father  told 
me,"  wrote  Voltaire  in  1772,  "  that  that  great  man  was  the 
most  wearisome  mortal  he  had  ever  seen,  and  the  man  of  the 
lowest  conversation."  2 

\  191  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  246. 

2  80  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  433. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HIS  CHILDHOOD. 


-"1 


Feancois-Mame,  the  last  born  of  a  weakly  and  declining 
mother,  was  abandoned  to  the  care  of  a  nurse,  who  had 
charge  of  him  in  an  upper  room  of  the  paternal  abode.  He 
had  at  first  but  the  feeblest  breath  of  life,  and  the  family 
did  not  expect  to  rear  him.  Every  morning,  for  several 
months,  the  nurse  came  down-stairs  to  tell  his  mother  that  the 
child  was  dying,  and  every  day  the  Abbe  de  Chateauneuf, 
godfather  of  the  infant  and  familiar  friend  of  its  parents, 
went  up-stairs  to  discuss  with  the  nurse  some  new  expedient 
for  saving  its  life.  So  reports  the  Abbe  Duvernet,  who 
heard  from  an  old  friend  of  Voltaire  all  that  he  usually 
told  of  his  earliest  days.  It  was  not  till  the  child  had  lan- 
guished the  greater  part  of  a  year  that  he  began  to  mend 
sufficiently  to  give  his  parents  hopes  of  saving  him.  Grad- 
ually from  that  time  he  gained  strength,  and  became  at 
length  a  healthy  and  active  child,  though  never  robust. 

It  fared  otherwise  with  the  mother,  who,  so  far  as  we 
know,  contributed  nothing  to  the  formation  of  this  boy  ex- 
cept the  friends  whom  she  attracted  to  her  home  and  who 
continued  to  frequent  it  when  she  was  no  more.  She  lingered 
seven  years  after  his  birth,  dying  July  13,  1701,  aged  forty. 

His  father,  a  busy,  thriving  man,  occupied  with  his  office, 
his  clients,  and  his  growing  capital,  appears  to  have  con- 
cerned himself  no  more  about  the  boy  than  busy  fathers 
usually  did  about  their  young  children.  He  must  have  been 
a  liberal  and  agreeable  man,  if  only  to  keep  about  him  the 
learned  and  gifted  persons  whom  his  wife  may  have  originally 
drawn.  But,  so  far  as  we  know,  he  taught  his  son  nothing 
but  the  art  of  thriving,  and  this  he  did  without  intending 
it.     Such  knowledge  pervaded  the  air  of  the  notary's  home, 


22  LIFE  OF  ^ 

and  the  boy  inhaled  it  unconsc  luities,  reversions, 

estates,  revenues,    interest,    sh  mortgages,  all    of 

which  the   son  came  to   unders  mdle    better  than 

any  other  literary  man   of  an  the    stuff    out  of 

which   his   father's  business   ai  vere    made.      The 

old  man  little  thought  what  an  accomj^lished  notary  his 
younger  son  was  learning  to  be,  when  he  disturbed  the 
clerks  assiduously  copying  in  the  notarial  office,  and  played 
with  the  rolls  of  parchment.     He  caught  the  secret    of    all 

,^hat  exact  and  patient  industry,  though  it  disgusted  him. 
-^~~  Of  his  sister  we  know  little  more  than  that  she  was  his 
favorite  in  the  small  household,  as  far  as  a  sister  of  six- 
teen might  be  to  a  boy  of  seven.  She  was  married  young  to 
one  of  the  numerous  officers  of  the  Chamber  of  Accounts, 
and  became  the  mother  of  four  children,  descendants  of  whom 
are  still  living  in  France,  and  have  even  figured  in  French 
politics  within  living  memory.  One  of  her  grandsons,  M. 
d'Hornoi,  was  a  member  of  the  House  of  Deputies  in  1827. 
Her  children  and  grandchildren  supplied  the  sole  legitimate 
domestic  element  in  Voltaire's  life,  and  connected  him  with 
his  country's  social  system.  To  this  boy  of  seven,  left  mother- 
less, she  could  be  only  the  good  elder  sister ;  not  always 
patient  with  his  whims,  not  capable  of  directing  his  mind, 
and  much  absorbed,  doubtless,  as  girls  naturally  are,  with 
the  opening  romance  of  her  own  life. 

Her  brother  Armand,  who  w-as  seventeen  years  of  age  at 

>  the  death  of  their  mother,  had  already  imbibed  at  the  semi- 
nary of  St.  Magloire,  in  Paris,  extreme  and  gloomy  views  of 
religion,  which  he  held  through  life.  He  touched  Voltaire 
only  to  repel  him.  "  My  Jansenist  of  a  brother,"  he  fre- 
quently calls  Armand,  —  a  term  equivalent  to  Roman  Catholic 
Calvinist.  Credulous,  superstitious,  austere,  devout,  Armand 
passed  his  days,  as  many  Avorth}^  people  did  in  that  age,  and  do 
in  this  age,  in  making  virtue  odious  and  repulsive.  The  con- 
trast which  he  presents  to  his  brother  is  not  unusual  in  re- 
ligious communities,  but  is  seldom  so  complete  and  striking 
as  in  this  instance.  It  recalls  to  mind  that  inconofruous 
brother  of  John  Milton,  the  long-forgotten  Christopher  Mil- 
ton ;  extreme  tory  and  High  Churchman,  partisan  most  zeal- 
ous of  the  three  Stuarts,  knighted   and  raised  to  the  bench 


HIS   CHILDHOOD.  23 

by  James  11.  Armand  Arouet  carried  his  credulity  to  the  / 
point  of  writing  a  work  defending  the  Convulsionist  miracles,  > 
which  is  said  to  exist  among  the  Voltaire  manuscripts  at 
Petersburgh ;  and  Duvernet  assures  us  that  in  1786  there 
could  still  be  seen,  above  the  pulpit  of  the  church  in  which 
Voltaire  was  baptized,  a  votive  offering,  placed  there  by  Ar- 
mand Arouet  in  expiation  of  his  brother's  unbelief. 

This  elder  brother,  then,  had  little  to  do  with  forming  the, 
motherless  child,  except  to  make  him  recoil  with  loathing; 
and  contempt  from  whatever  savored  of  the  serious  and  the' 
elevated. 

Among  the  frequenters  of  the  Arouet  home  were  three 
persons  who  enjoyed  the  ecclesiastical  title  of  abbe  without 
possessing  other  ecclesiastical  quality.  In  old  Paris  there 
were  many  such,  most  of  them  younger  sons  of  noble  fami- 
lies, who  had  taken  nominally  a  course  of  theology,  in  case 
anything  good  should  fall  in  their  way  which  a  secular  abbe 
could  enjoy, —  a  canonicate,  or  a  portion  of  the  revenues  of 
a  veritable  abbey.  In  the  olden  time,  it  seems,  the  monks 
were  accustomed  to  place  their  convent  under  the  protection 
of  a  powerful  lord,  by  electing  him  their  abbd  and  assigning 
him  a  part  of  their  income.  From  the  chief  of  a  great  house 
to  a  younger  son  of  the  same  was  a  natural  transition ;  and 
hence  the  swarm  of  abb^s,  in  semi-clerical  garb,  more  or 
less  endowed  with  clerical  revenue,  who  figured  in  French 
society  of  that  century,  —  gentlemen  of  leisure,  scholars  by 
profession,  and  much  given  as  a  class  to  the  more  decorous 
audacities  of  unbelief.  The  French  are  not  particular  in 
the  matter  of  titles.  In  the  course  of  time  any  man  in 
France  who  had  a  tincture  of  the  ecclesiastic  in  him  might 
style  himself  abb^,  —  a  word  that,  after  all,  only  means 
father. 

The  Abb^  Rochebrune  was  one  of  these,  described  by 
Voltaire  himself,  in  after  years,  as  an  agreeable  poet,  and  still 
known  to  collectors  as  the  author  of  a  cantata  upon  the  story 
of  Orpheus,  which  was  set  to  music  by  Cldrambault,  a  noted 
composer  and  organist  of  Paris.  This  cantata  was  performed 
at  court  before  Louis  XIV.,  with  great  applause,  at  a  time 
when  such  compositions  were  in  the  highest  vogue. 

Nicholas    G^doyn,  another    of  the  abbds,  was  a  more   ini- 


24  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

portant  and  more  interesting  person.  Like  Rocliebrune,  lie 
was  the  scion  of  an  ancient  race,  a  circumstance  that  gave  him 
a  canonicate  and  a  revenue  from  two  abbeys  while  he  was  still 
in  the  prime  of  manhood.  He  had  a  passion  for  the  classic 
authors  of  antiquity,  and  published  free  translations  of  Quin- 
tilian  and  Pausanias,  which  remained  for  two  generations 
popular  works  in  France,  and  are  still  read.  He  was  one  of 
that  antique  race  of  scholars  who  could  not  go  anywhere  with- 
out their  pocket  Horace.  He  loved  his  Horace,  and  wrote 
a  "Conversation"  upon  him.  The  titles  of  his  works  show 
the  bent  of  his  mind :  "  Life  of  Epaminondas,"  "  Roman 
Urbanity,"  "  The  Pleasures  of  the  Table  among  the  Greeks," 
"  Apology  for  Translations,"  "  The  Ancients  and  the  Mod- 
erns," "  The  Judgments  of  Photius  upon  the  Greek  Ora- 
tors." He  also  wrote  a  treatise  upon  the  "  Education  of  Chil- 
dren," that  explains  in  part  the  warm  interest  which  we  know 
he  took  in  the  education  of  the  little  Francois  Arouet,  whom 

<Jie  influenced  powerfully  and  decisively.  Jesuit,  canon,  and 
abbe  as  he  was,  he  was  as  much  pagan  as  Christian;  or, 
as  Voltaire  more  politely  expresses  it,  in  his  list  of  the  au- 
thors of  Louis  XIV.'s  time :  "  The  Abbe  Gedoyn  was  so 
warmly  enamored  of  the  authors  of  antiquity  that  he  willingly 
pardoned  their  religion  in  consideration  of  the  beauties  of 
their  works  and  their  mythology."  The  genial  abbe  had  little 
love  of  modern  authors.  He  thought  the  human  mind  had 
lapsed  and  narrowed  under  Christianity,  and  that  great  poetry 
\  and  great  eloquence  had  passed  away  with  the  mythology  of 
\  the    Greeks.       Milton's   "  Paradise    Lost "  seemed    to   him  a 

I  "barbarous   poem,   of  a  fanaticism  dismal  and  disgusting,  in 

J  which  the  Devil  howled  without  ceasin^  ac^ainst  the  Messiah." 
This  amiable  and  enthusiastic  scholar,  nourished  and  lim- 

/ited  by  the  literature  of  the  past,  loved  the  child,  associated 
/  familiarly  with  him  all  through  his  forming  years,  and 
breathed  into  him  that  love  of  the  ancient  models  which  his 
^  works  so  remarkably  exhibit.  Gedoyn,  like  Rochebrune,  was 
interested  in  music.  He  goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  the 
moderns  cannot  in  the  least  appreciate  the  poems  of  Pindar, 
because  the  music  is  lost  to  which  they  were  sung. 

Chateauneuf  was  the  third  of  our  abbes,  the  early  guides 
and  tutors  of  this  susceptible  spirit.      Here  we    touch  music 


HIS   CHILDHOOD.  25 

again,  for  tliis  abb^  has  a  place  in  the  catalogue  of  French 
writers  only  as  the  author  of  a  "  Treatise  upon  the  Music  of 
the  Ancients."  The  particular  tie  which  bound  these  abbes 
together  was  probably  their  common  regard  for  Ninon  de 
Lenclos,  whose  father  was  an  amateur  lutist  of  celebrity  and 
learning,  and  she  was  well  skilled  in  the  instruments  of  the 
time.  They  were  all  members  of  the  elegant  and  distin- 
guished circle  w^hich  gathered  round  Ninon  in  her  old  age, 
one  charm  of  whose  abode  was  the  excellent  music  furnished 
by  herself  and  h&r  guests.  The  little  Arouet  had  no  ear 
for  music,  but  he  had  an  ear  very  susceptible  and  attentive 
to  other  lessons  taught  him  by  his  abbes. 

Chateauneuf  loved  the  French  classics  as  much  as  Gedoyn 
loved  the  Greek  and  Roman  ;  Racine  was  his  favorite  among 
the  French  poets,  who  always  remained  Voltaire's.  "  Sixty 
years  ago,"  wrote  Voltaire  in  1766,  "  the  Abbe  de  Chateau- 
neuf said  to  me,  'My  child,  let  the  world  talk  as  it  will, 
Racine  wall  gain  every  day,  and  Corneille  lose.'  " 

This  last  lover  of  Ninon  was  brother  to  the  Marquis  de 
Chateauneuf,  a  person  of  note  in  the  diplomacy  of  the  time, 
ambassador  to  Holland  and  to  Turkey  at  a  later  day.  The 
abb^  was  a  gay,  decorous,  and  genial  man  of  the  world, 
known  in  all  agreeable  circles,  and,  as  St.  Simon  records, 
"  welcome  in  the  best."  In  particular,  he  frequented  the  opu- 
lent and  elegant  abode  of  the  Abb^  de  Chaulieu,  poet  and 
epicure,  who  drew  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year  from  the 
revenues  of  country  abbeys,  which  he  spent  in  Paris,  enter- 
taining princes,  poets,  and  literary  churchmen.  This  lux- 
urious ecclesiastic  lived  near  the  Arouets,  and  his  house  was 
the  door  through  which  the  youngest  of  them  was  to  make 
his  way  to  the  elevated  social  spheres. 

But  it  was  the  Abb6  Chateauneuf  who  was  the  child's  first 
instructor.  In  his  character  of  godfather,  he  had  promised  to 
see  that  the  boy  was  duly  instructed  in  religion,  and  reared 
in  accordance  with  the  laws  and  usages  of  the  Catholic  Church. ' 
Voltaire  told  his  intimate  friends  how  his  godfather  fulfilled 
this  vow.  He  first  made  the  child  read  and  repeat  the  rhymed 
fables  of  La  Fontaine,  —  new  works  then,  the  author  having 
survived  till  this  boy  was  half  a  year  old.  Duvernet  mentions 
a  piece  by  another  hand,  which,  he  says,  the  boy  knew  by  heart 


{ 


26  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

wlien  he  was  three  years  of  age,  —  "  La  Moisade,"  a  fugitive 
poem  then  in  great  vogue  among  these  gay  abb^s,  who  lived 
upon  the  revenues  of  a  church  which  they  despised  and  under- 
mined. 

We  need  not  believe  that  the  boy  knew  this  piece  by  heart 
-at  three  years  of  age ;  but  it  was  among  the  pieces  of  verse 
which  he  first  heard  and  longest  remembered.  Such  produc- 
tions, common  as  they  afterwards  were,  had  in  1697  the  com- 
bined charm  of  novelty  and  danger.  They  circulated  in  man- 
uscript from  hand  to  hand,  and  from  circle  to  circle ;  grave 
men  and  famous  women  copied  them  into  their  diaries,  where 
they  may  still  be  read,  together  with  those  satires  and  squibs 
which  caused  the  government  of  the  Bourbons  to  be  described 
as  a  despotism  tempered  by  epigrams.  This  "  Muisade  "  is  a 
short  poem  in  the  deistical  taste ;  its  main  purport  being  that 
all  of  religion  is  a  device  of  interested  men,  excepting  alone  the 
doctrine  of  a  Supreme  Being.  Moses,  according  to  this  poet, 
availed  himself  of  the  credulity  of  the  ignorant  multitude  in 
order  to  secure  obedience  to  good  laws.     It  concludes  thus :  — 

"  Men  vain  and  fanatical  receive,  without  difficulty,  the  most  chi- 
merical fables.  A  little  word  about  eternity  renders  them  benign  and 
peaceful ;  and  thus  the  whole  of  a  stupefied  people  are  reduced  to  kiss 
the  ligatures  that  strangle  them.  By  such  arts  Moses  knew  how  to 
fix  the  restless  spirit  of  the  Hebrews,  and  took  captive  their  credulity 
by  ranging  his  politic  laws  under  the  standard  of  the  Divinity.  He 
pretended  to  have  seen  upon  a  distant  moxmtain  celestial  visions.  He 
gave  those  rustics  to  understand  that  God,  in  his  splendor  and  maj- 
esty, had  appeared  before  his  dazzled  eyes.  Authentic  tables  he 
showed  them,  containing  God's  will.  He  supported  by  pathetic  tones 
a  tale  so  well  invented,  and  the  entire  people  was  enchanted  with 
those  magnificent  fooleries.  Cunning  falsehood  passing  for  truth 
established  the  authority  of  that  legislator,  and  gave  currency  to  the 
politic  errors  by  which  the  world  was  infected." 

Such  was  the  lesson  taught  the  infant  Arouet  through  the 
instrumentality  of  his  godfather;  and  probably  the  whole 
Arouet  household  and  circle  approved  it,  except  his  brother 
Armand.  Such  was  the  tone  of  the  circle  of  abbds,  poets, 
and  placemen  who  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  to  do 
with  the  formation  of  this  most  susceptible  boy,  from  his  in- 
j   fancy  to  mature  age. 


HIS   CHILDHOOD.  27 

There  was  sucli  a  stir  in  matters  religious  during  the  ten 
years  spent  at  his  father's  house  that  so  eager  and  intelligent 
a  boy  as  he  was  could  not  have  failed  to  know  something  of 
it.  In  writing  certain  passages,  half  a  century  later,  of  his 
"  Age  of  Louis  XIV.,"  he  may  have  drawn  upon  his  o^vn  rec- 
ollections as  a  little  child.  It  was  about  1702,  as  he  therein 
records,  that  a  strong  feeling  arose  within  the  church  itself 
against  the  filthy  relics  with  which  every  altar  then  reeked. 
Readers  who  have  chanced  to  see  the  old  English  ballad  of 
Cromwell's  time,  called  "  A  Journey  into  France,"  may  have 
supposed  that  its  list  of  the  relics  in  Notre  Dame  of  Paris 
was  a  mere  invention  of  a  "  natural  enemy."  Besides  a  sleeve 
and  a  slipper  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  the  poet  enumerates  among 
"the  sights  of  Nostre  Dame,"  — 

''  Pier  Breasts,  her  Milk,  her  very  Gown 
Which  she  did  weare  in  Bethlem  town, 

When  in  the  Inne  she  lay  ; 
Yet  all  the  world  knows  that  's  a  fable, 
For  so  good  Cloaths  ne'r  lay  in  stable, 
Upon  a  lock  of  Hay. 

"  There  is  one  of  the  Crosses  Nails, 
Which  whoso  sees  his  bonnet  vailes, 

And  if  he  will,  may  kneel : 
Some  say,  't  is  false,  't  was  never  so, 
Yet,  feeling  it,  thus  much  I  know, 

It  is  as  true  as  Steel."  ^ 

This  catalogue  of  disgust  was  probably  not  invented  by  the 
poet,  for  we  know  that  offensive  objects,  similarly  described, 
were  actually  exhibited  in  the  chief  church  of  France  when 
Francois-Marie  A^ouet  was  a  child  in  his  father's  house,  near 
by.  It  was  in  1702,  when  he  was  eight  years  of  age,  he  tells 
us,  that  there  arose  in  France  a  bishop  —  Gaston-Louis  de 
Noailles — who  was  brave  enough  to  take  from  his  metropoli- 
tan church,  at  Chalons  on  the  Marne,  a  relic  which  had  been 
adored  for  ages  as  the  navel  of  Jesus  Christ.  This  bishop 
had  the  courage  to  throw  away  the  monstrous  thing. 

"All  Chalons  murmured  against  the  bishop.  Presidents,  counsel- 
ors, placemen,  royal  treasurers,  merchants,  men  of  note,  canons, 
priests,  protested  unanimously,  in  legal  form,  against  the  enterprise 
of  the  bishop,  demanding  the  return  of    the  navel,   and  supporting 

1  Musarum  Deliciae,  London,  1656. 


28  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

their  demand  by  referring  to  the  robe  of  Jesus  Christ  preserved  at 
Argenteuil,  his  handkerchief  at  Turin  and  at  Laon,  one  of  the  nails 
of  the  cross  at  St.  Denis,  and  so  many  other  relics  which  we  preserve 
and  despise,  and  which  do  so  much  wrong  to  the  religion  that  we 
revere.  But  the  wise  firmness  of  the  bishop  carried  the  day  at  last 
over  the  credulity  of  the  people."  ^ 

This  movement  had  indeed  originated  some  years  before 
with  Jean  de  Launoi,  a  famous  and  learned  doctor  of  Paris,  who 
made  such  effective  war  against  the  falsities  of  the  Roman  cal- 
endar as  to  acquire  the  name  of  Saint  Expeller  (JDinicheur  de 
Saints).  He  had  the  mania  to  scrutinize  the  historical  claims 
of  popular  saints,  and,  if  he  found  the  testimony  insufficient, 
erased  them  from  his  list.  "  He  is  terrible  alike  to  heaven 
and  earth,"  says  a  writer  of  that  day,  "  for  he  has  tumbled 
more  saints  out  of  Paradise  than  any  ten  Popes  have  put 
there."  A  witty  priest  remarked  that  whenever  Doctor  de 
Launoi  came  into  his  parish  he  made  profound  reverences  to 
him,  for  fear  he  should  take  away  his  St.  Roch.  A  country 
magnate  begged  him  not  to  harm  St.  Yon,  the  patron  saint 
of  one  of  his  villages.  "  How  shall  I  do  him  any  harm," 
said  the  Denicheur,  "since  I  have  not  the  honor  to  know 
him  ?  "  On  another  occasion  he  declared  that  he  did  not  turn 
out  of  heaven  the  blessed  whom  God  had  placed  there,  but 
only  those  whom  ignorance  and  error  had  slipped  in.  He 
held  "  a  Monday  "  at  his  house  for  the  discussion  of  saintly 
claims  and  traditions,  when  he  made  such  havoc  of  favorite 
saints,  male  and  female,  and  turned  into  ridicule  so  many 
pious  and  romantic  fictions,  that  Louis  XIV.  asked  him  to  dis- 
continue those  assemblies.  Witty  and  gay  churchmen  laughed 
at  his  honest  zeal ;  the  king  feared  it ;  and  so  the  beginning 
of  reform  within  the  church  could  not  go  far. 

All  this  was  "in  the  air"  while  Voltaire  was  a  little  boy 
at  his  father's  house  ;  and  during  the  whole  forming  period  of 
his  life  he  lived  in  the  very  thick  of  it.  He  had  also  an  elder 
brother  in  Paris,  who  made  conscientious  living  ridiculous  and 
offensive. 

1  Si^cle  de  Louis  XIV.,  chap.  xxxt. 


CHAPTER  V. 

AT   SCHOOL. 

The  boy  remained  at  home  three  years  after  his  mother's  ' 
death,  with  his  father,  sister,  and  elder  brothei',  instructed  in 
a  desultory  way  by  the  Abbd  Chateauneuf.  The  family  lived 
liberally  and  with  some  elegance,  enjoying,  as  documents  at- 
test, a  large  garden,  a  summer  residence  in  a  suburban  village, 
with  a  farm  adjacent,  horses,  vehicles,  books,  an  ample  in- 
come, consideration,  and  a  ch'cle  of  agreeable  friends,  whom 
these  alone  never  command.  "  I  wrote  verses  from  my  cra- 
dle," Voltaire  remarks  more  than  once,  and  Duvernet  adds 
that  Armand  Arouet  also  wrote  them,  even  while  both  were 
boys  at  home.  The  family,  he  says,  used  to  amuse  themselves 
by  pitting  the  brothers  against  one  another  in  verse-making, 
and  the  verses  of  the  younger  were  so  good  as  at  first  to 
please  and  afterwards  to  alarm  his  father,  who  was  a  man  of 
judgment,  and  dreaded  the  development  of  so  unprofitable  a 
talent. 

Maitre  Arouet,  like  a  true  French  father,  had  a  scheme  of  . 
life  for  each  of  his  sons.  The  elder,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
would  follow  his  father's  business  of  notary,  and  succeed  by 
inheritance  to  his  father's  offices.  For  his  younger  son  he 
cherished  more  ambitious  views :  he  designed  to  make  a  solic- 
itor or  an  advocate  of  him.  A  notary,  in  such  practice  as  he 
enjoyed,  would  be  almost  a  sufficient  patron  to  a  young  advo- 
cate, and  it  would  be  both  convenient  and  advantageous  to 
have  a  lawyer  in  the  family.  We  still  hear  of  solicitors  in 
London,  in  large  practice,  bringing  up  a  son  or  a  nephew  as 
a  barrister,  because  it  is  solicitors  who  choose  barristers  for 
their  clients.  There  were  also  places  open  to  the  legal  profes- 
sion in  France,  procurable  by  purchase,  by  interest,  or  by  a 
blending  of  the  two,  wliich  led  to  the  higher  magistracy,  if 
not  to  the  court  and  cabinet  of  the  king. 


30  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

r'  This  father,  it  is  evident,  had  set  his  heart  upon  seehig  his 
younger  son  enter  a  career  in  which  he  could  push  him  on  to 
fortune  with  advantage  to  himself  ;  and  to  this  end  he  took 
precisely  the  course  which  an  opulent  father  of  his  rank  would 
adopt  at  the  present  time  :  he  sent  him  to  the  great  school  of 
the  day,  —  tlie  Eton  of  France,  —  the  Jesuit  College  Louis-le- 
Grand,  attended  then  by  two  thousand  boys  of  the  most  distin- 
guished families  in  the  kingdom.  This  school,  which  still  exists 
upon  its  ancient  site  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  in  the  heart  of  old 
Paris,  presented  almost  every  attraction  which  could  weigh 
with  a  fond  or  an  ambitious  parent.  The  Jesuits  were  in  the 
highest  credit  with  king,  court,  and  hierarchy,  and  this  school 
was  among  their  most  cherished  and  important  institutions. 
Years  before,  when  Louis  XIV.  visited  it  in  state  to  witness  a 
play  performed  by  the  pupils,  he  let  fall  an  expression  which 
gave  it  the  name  it  bore,  and  brought  it  into  the  highest  fash- 
ion. A  spectator  said,  "  Everything  is  admirable  here."  The 
king,  hearing  the  remark,  responded,  "  Certainly,  it  is  my  col- 
lege." The  next  morning,  before  the  dawn  of  day,  the  old 
name  of  "  College  of  Clermont "  had  disappeared  from  the 
gate- way,  and  in  its  stead  was  placed  a  new  name,  "  College 
Louis-le-Grand." 

The  urbane  and  scholarly  Jesuits  held  this  king  in  firm  pos- 
session. That  plain-spoken  lady,  Madame,  mother  of  the  Re- 
gent, tells  us  in  her  Memoirs  that  the  priests  had  made  the 
king  believe  all  men  damned  except  those  whom  Jesuits  had 
instructed.  If  any  one  about  the  court,  she  adds,  wished  to 
ruin  a  man,  he  had  only  to  call  him  a  Huguenot  or  a  Jansen- 
ist,  and  his  business  was  done.  Her  son,  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
desired  to  take  a  gentleman  into  his  service  who  had  been  ac- 
cused of  Jansenism.  "  Why,  nephew,"  said  the  king,  "  do 
you  think  of  such  a  thing  as  receiving  a  Jansenist  into  your 
service  ?  "  The  prince  replied,  "  I  can  positively  assure  your 
majesty  that  he  is  no  Jansenist.  It  is  rather  to  be  feared  that 
he  does  not  even  believe  in  God."  "  Oh,"  said  the  king,  "  if 
that  's  all,  and  you  give  me  your  word  he  's  no  Jansenist, 
take  him."  It  is  doubtful  if  INIaitre  Arouet  thought  better  of 
the  Jansenists  than  the  king,  since  his  son  Armand  had  come 
from  their  teaching  a  narrow  and  cheerless  devotee. 
jit  was  in  the  autumn  of  1704,  a  few  weeks  after  the  battle 


AT   SCHOOL.  31. 

of  Blenheim,  that  Francois-Marie  Arouet,  aged  ten  years,  was 
placed  in  this  famous  school.  His  home  was  within  an  easy 
walk  of  the  miscellaneous  aggregation  of  buildings  belonging 
to  the  college  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  on  the  southern  side  of 
the  Seine ;  but  his  father,  left  a  widower  three  years  before, 
had  given  away  his  only  daughter  in  marriage,  and  therefore 
entered  his  son  among  the  boarders,  five  hundred  in  number. 

The  child  was  not  turned  loose  among  this  great  crowd  of 
boys,  to  make  his  way  as  best  he  could.  There  were  privi- 
leges which  wealth  could  buy,  and  Maitre  Arouet  provided  for 
his  son  one  of  the  most  valuable  of  these.  The  price  of  board 
and  tuition  was  four  hundred  francs  a  year ;  which  entitled 
the  pupil  to  no  special  care  or  comfort.  A  prince,  or  indeed 
any  man  who  chose  to  pay  the  extra  cost,  could  establish  his 
son  in  a  private  room,  and  provide  him  with  a  servant  and 
tutor  ;  and  there  were  usually  thirty  or  forty  boys  in  the  col- 
lege thus  favored.  The  private  rooms  were  in  such  request 
that  it  was  necessary  to  speak  for  one  of  them  years  before 
it  was  wanted.  There  were  thirty  or  forty  larger  rooms  for 
groups  of  five,  six,  or  seven  pupils,  each  group  under  the  care 
of  a,  p7'efet,  a  priest,  who  served  them  as  father  and  tutor,  aid- 
ing them  in  their  lessons,  and  keeping  them  from  harm.  It 
was  in  one  of  these  groups  that  ]\Iaitre  Arouet  placed  his  child, 
under  the  care  of  Father  Thoulier,  a  young  priest  (twenty- 
two  in  1704)  of  noted  family  and  attainments.  What  better 
could  a  generous  father  do  for  a  promising,  motherless  boy  of 
ten  in  the  Paris  of  1704?  Clad  in  a  scholar's  modest  frock 
and  cap,  brown-haired,  bright-eyed,  not  robust,  already  prac- 
ticed in  gay  mockery  of  things  revered,  Frangois  Arouet  took 
his  place  in  that  swarm  of  French  boys  of  the  College  Louis- 
le-Grand.  There  he  remained  for  seven  years,  and  it  was  his 
only  school. 

We  must  think  of  it  simply  as  a  boys'  school,  not  a  col- 
lege ;  a  humming,  bustling  hive  of  boys,  given  to  mischief, 
and  liable  to  the  most  primitive  punishments  when  detected  in 
the  same.  It  was  while  Voltaire  was  a  pupil  that  the  Duke 
de  Boufflers  and  the  Marquis  d'Argenson  conspired  with  other 
boys  to  blow  a  pop-gun  volley  of  peas  at  the  nose  of  the  un- 
popular professor.  Father  Lejay,  and  were  condemned  to  be 
flogged  for  the  outrage.     The  marquis,  a  boy  of  seventeen, 


32  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  son  of  a  king's  minister,  managed  to  escape  ;  but  the 
younger  duke,  though  he  was  named  "  Governor  of  Flanders  " 
and  colonel  of  a  regiment,  was  obliged  to  submit  to  the  pun- 
ishment. Voltaire,  too,  speaks  of  his  prefet  giving  him  and 
his  comrades  some  slaps  sur  les  f esses  by  way  of  amusement.^ 
The  discipline,  however,  was  far  from  being  severe,  and  there 
was  evidently  a  friendl}'  sympathy  between  pupils  and  teach- 
ers, which,  in  the  case  of  Voltaire,  survived  school-days. 

In  no  important  particular  did  this  school  differ  from  a 
Jesuit  school  of  the  present  moment,  such  as  we  may  visit  in 
Rome,  Vienna,  Montreal,  New  York.  Sixty  years  after  leav- 
ing it,  Voltaire  recalled  to  mind  the  picture,  twelve  feet  square, 
which  adorned  one  of  its  halls,  of  St.  Ignatius  and  St.  Xavier 
going  to  heaven  in  a  resplendent  chariot  drawn  by  four  white 
horses,  the  Father  Eternal  visible  on  high,  wearing  a  beauti- 
ful white  beard  flowing  to  his  waist,  the  Virgin  and  her  Son 
by  his  side,  the  Holy  Spirit  beneath  in  the  form  of  a  dove, 
and  a  choir  of  angels  waiting  with  joined  hands  and  bowed 
heads  to  receive  the  illustrious  fathers  of  the  order.^  He  re- 
membered, too,  that  if  any  one  in  France  had  presumed  to 
ridicule  this  childish  legend,  the  reverend  Pere  la  Chaise,  con- 
fessor of  the  king,  would  have  had  the  scoffer  in  the  Bastille 
with  promptitude.  Just  such  pictures  still  hang  in  many  a 
school,  and  the  general  view  of  the  universe  intended  to  be  in- 
culcated by  them  is  not  materially  changed.  But  the  Bastille 
is  gone,  and  the  power  of  Pere  la  Chaise  is  diminished. 

The  boy  took  his  place  in  the  lowest  class,  the  sixth,  and 
began  his  Rosa,  la  Hose,  in  the  crabbed  old  "  Rudimenta  "  of 
Despauteres,  written  in  Latin,  and  stuffed  with  needless  diffi- 
culties of  the  good  old-fashioned  kind.  At  many  schools  a 
better  book  was  used,  written  in  French,  and  every  way  more 
suitable  ;  but  no  Jesuit  of  that  generation  would  adopt  it  be- 
cause it  was  written  by  the  Fathers  of  Port  Royal,  odious 
Jansenists  !  In  Greek  he  was  given  a  little  book  of  easy  sen- 
tences, by  Jean  Stobde,  a  compiler  who  lived  in  the  fourth 
century ;  and  this  was  followed,  in  his  second  year,  by  a  selec- 
tion of  J^^sop's  Fables.  Early  in  the  course  he  was  set  to  read- 
ing the  Latin  poems  of  Father  Commire,  who  put  into  such 

1  88  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  261. 

2  55  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  280. 


AT   SCHOOL. 

hexameters  as  he  could  command  the  stories  of  Jonah,  Daniel, 
and  the  Immaculate  Conception,  for  the  edification  of  youth  ; 
also,  some  pompous  eulogies  of  the  Virgin  Mary.  And  so  he 
worked  his  way  up  through  all  the  classes,  meeting  every  day 
similar  incongruities,  at  the  recollection  of  which  he  laughed 
all  his  life :  Epictetus  one  hour,  and  St.  Basil's  Homilies  the 
next ;  now  Lucian,  now  St.  Chrysostom  ;  Virgil  in  the  morn- 
ing, Commire  in  the  afternoon  ;  Cicero  alternating  with  lea- 
ther Lejay's  Latin  Life  of  Joseph  ;  Sallust  followed  by  a 
Psalm  of  David,  in  what  he  calls  "  kitchen  Latin  ; "  the  col- 
lege course  being  that  wondrous  mixture  of  the  two  Romes  — 
Cicero's  Rome  and  the  Pope's  Rome,  both  imperial  —  which 
for  ages  constituted  polite  education.  The  teachers  were  ami- 
able and  worthy  gentlemen,  who  did  the  best  they  knew  for 
their  pupils.  It  merely  happened  that  they  now  had  a  pupil 
in  whom  the  ingredients  would  not  mix. 

The  most  gifted  boy,  in  the  most  favorable  circumstances, 
can  only  make  a  fair  beginning  of  education  from  ten  to  sev- 
enteen. Voltaire,  at  the  end  of  his  course,  could  not  have 
entered  such  universities  as  Oxford,  Cambridge,  Berlin,  and 
Harvai'd  are  now.  He  may  have  had  Latin  enough,  but  not 
half  enough  Greek  ;  no  modern  language  but  his  own  ;  scarcely 
any  tinctui'e  of  mathematics  ;  no  modern  history  ;  no  science  ; 
not  even  a  tolerable  outline  of  geography.  The  school-books  i 
still  held  to  the  ancient  theory  that  rivers  were  formed  by  the 
ocean  running  into  deep  caverns  under  the  mountains  ;  and  if 
any  of  the  fathers  had  yet  heard  of  the  new  astronomy  of 
Professor  Isaac  Newton  (adopted  at  Oxford  in  1704,  Voltaire's 
first  year  at  school),  they  had  heard  of  it  only  to  reject  it  as 
heresy.  He  did  not  learn  the  most  remarkable  events  even  of 
French  history,  unless  he  learned  them  out  of  class.  "  I  did 
not,"  he  intimates,  "  know  that  Francis  I.  was  taken  prisoner 
at  Pavia,  nor  where  Pavia  was  ;  the  very  land  of  my  birth  was 
unknown  to  me.  I  knew  neitlier  the  constitution  nor  the  inter- 
ests of  my  country  ;  not  a  word  of  mathematics,  not  a  word 
of  sound  philosophy.     I  learned  Latin  and  nonsense."  ^ 

We  have  a  work  upon  education  by  Jouvency,  a  Jesuit 
father  of  that  generation,  in  which  no  mention  is  made  of 
geography,   history,   mathematics,  or   science.      Much    Latin, 

1  54  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  209. 

VOL.    I.  3 


r* 


34  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

a  little  Greek,  and  plenty  of  wliat  Voltaire  called  nonsense 
(^sottises')  made  up  the  mental  diet  of  the  pupils  of  the  Col- 
lege Louis-le-Grand. 
r —  The  main  strength  of  the  worthy  fathers  was  expended  in 
'  teaching  their  pupils  to  use  words  with  effect  and  grace.  The 
nonsense  (^les  sottises)  was  a  necessity  of  their  time  and  voca- 
tion. Grave  and  learned  men  could  still  gravely  and  learn- 
edly discourse  upon  the  grades  of  angels,  the  precise  difference 
between  a  "throne"  and  a  "dominion,"  the  language  em- 
ployed by  Adam  and  Eve,  the  parents  of  Melchisedech,  and 
the  spot  whence  Enoch  had  been  translated  to  heaven.  Boys 
could  not  escape  such  sottises  ;  but  in  a  fashionable  school  of 
the  learned  and  courtly  Jesuits  they  were  taught  with  more 
of  formality  and  routine  than  among  Jansenist  orders,  who 
were  rude  enough  to  take  such  things  seriously. 
\  Literary  skill  was  what  this  boy  acquired  at  school,  and 
scarcely  any  other  good  thing.  He  studied  and  loved  Virgil, 
his  "  idol  and  master."  He  studied  and  loved  Horace,  the 
model  of  much  of  his  maturest  verse.  He  loved  to  recall,  in 
later  years,  the  happy  hour  when,  as  a  school-boy,  he  came 
upon  that  passage  of  Cicero's  oration  on  behalf  of  the  poet 
Archias,  which  has  been  a  favorite  sentence  with  school-boys 
for  many  a  century  :  "  Studies  nourish  youth,  cheer  old  age, 
adoim  prosperity,  console  adversity,  delight  at  home,  are  no 
impediment  abroad,  remain  with  us  through  the  night,  accom- 
pany us  when  we  travel,  and  go  with  us  into  the  country."  In 
a  letter  to  Madame  du  Chatelet,  written  in  the  first  warmth 
of  their  affection,  he  speaks  of  having  often  repeated  to  her 
those  words,  which,  he  says,  he  early  adopted  as  his  own.^  He 
speaks  more  than  once,  in  his  letters,  of  his  boyish  sensibility 
to  the  charms  of  poetry,  —  his  first  passion  and  his  last.  He- 
brew he  mentions  having  tried  in  vain  to  learn.  In  a  letter 
of  1767,  in  repudiating  the  doctrine  of  the  natural  equality 
of  minds,  he  adduces  his  own  incapacities :  "  As  early  as  my 
twelfth  year  I  was  aware  of  the  prodigious  number  of  things 
for  which  I  had  no  talent.  I  knew  that  my  organism  was  net 
formed  to  go  very  far  in  mathematics.  I  have  proved  that  I 
have  no  capacity  for  music.  God  has  said  to  each  man,  Thus 
far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther.     1  had  some  natural  power 

1  5  (Envres  de  Voltaire,  112. 


AT   SCHOOL.  35 

to  acquire  modern  languages  ;  none  for  the  Oriental.  We  can- 
not all  do  all  things."  ^ 

His  teachers  seemed  chosen  to  nourish  his  reigning  tastes. 
Father  Thoulier,  his  tutor,  known  afterwards  as  Abb^  d'Oli- 
vet,  was  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  and  accomplished  Latin- 
ists  in  Europe,  his  translations  of  Cicero  remaining  classic  to 
this  day  in  France.  He  spent  a  long  life  in  the  study  of  Ro- 
man literature,  his  love  for  which  had  originally  drawn  him 
into  the  order,  against  the  wishes  of  his  family.  "  Read 
Cicero  !  Read  Cicero !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  public  address  ; 
and  these  words,  as  one  of  his  biographers  remarks,  were  the 
moral  of  his  life.  He  could  almost  have  added,  "  Read  noth- 
ing but  Cicero  !  "  He  was  a  familiar,  genial  teacher,  whom 
Voltaire,  half  a  century  later,  used  to  address  as  "  my  dear 
Cicero;"  and  the  abbe  would  return  the  compliment  by  tell- 
ing his  pupil  that  he  was  tired  of  men,  and  passed  his  days 
"  with  a  Virgil,  a  Terence,  a  Moliere,  a  Voltaire."  In  his 
latest  years  he  became  a  kind  of  literary  bigot,  vaunting  his 
favorite  authors  and  reviling  the  favorites  of  others.  He  was 
m  the  ardor  and  buoyancy  of  youth  when  he  breathed  into 
this  susceptible  boy  the  love  of  Cicero,  and  gave  him  familiar 
slaps  by  way  of  amusement. 

But  the  prefet  only  saw  him  safely  to  the  door  of  the  class- 
rooms. His  chief  professor  of  Latin  was  Father  Por^e,  whose 
labor  of  love  was  to  write  Latin  plays  for  the  boys  to  per- 
form, some  of  which  are  still  occasionally  presented  in  French 
schools.2  M.  Pierron  declares  that  he  shall  not  to  his  dying 
day  forget  the  "  prodigious  ennui  "  that  he  endured  in  read- 
ing these  productions,  characterized,  as  he  remarks,  by  inanity 

1  2  Lettres  Inedites  de  Voltaire,  560. 

2  One  of  the  Latin  plays  of  Father  Force  was  performed  at  Boston,  Mass.,  at 
the  Commencement  of  Boston  College,  June  27,  1877.  It  was  called  Philedonus, 
or  the  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man,  the  argument  of  which  was  given  thus : 
While  pursuing  his  studies  in  Paris,  Philedonus  neglects  his  religious  duties,  and 
yields  to  the  fascinations  of  the  luxurious  capital.  Learning  that  his  friend, 
Erastus,  is  dangerously  ill,  Philedonus  becomes  the  victim  of  melancholy,  and 
no  longer  listens  to  the  voice  of  the  tempter.  Through  the  salutary  influence  of 
K  heavenly  vision,  in  which  his  mother  and  a  guardian  angel  appear,  and  partially 
arouse  the  long-dormant  energies  of  his  better  nature,  the  student  resolves  to 
amend.  Various  circumstances  —  among  others  the  dying  curse  of  Erastus  — 
strengthen  the  good  resolutions  of  Philedonus,  who  at  length  escapes  from  the 
toils  of  parasites  plotting  to  effect  his  ruin,  reforms  his  companions,  and  returns 
to  his  home  in  Italy. 


36  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

of  conception,  absence  of  interest,  puerility  of  style,  and  jests 
in  bad  taste.^  They  were,  however,  sufficient  for  their  purpose, 
and  gave  the  author  a  great  reputation.  He  was  a  handsome, 
imposing,  fluent,  and  agreeable  man,  who  knew  how  to  hold 
his  classes  attentive,  and  to  adorn  the  platform  on  state  occa- 
sions. Voltaire  speaks  of  Father  Por^e  with  respect  and  fond- 
ness thirty  years  after  leaving  school,  when  his  old  master  was 
at  the  head  of  the  college. 

It  was  Father  Por^e  who  said  of  the  boy  that  "  he  loved  to 
weigh  in  his  little  scales  the  great  interests  of  Europe  ;  "  which 
calls  to  mind  a  remark  of   his  own,  written  half    a  century 
later :  "  In  my  infancy  I  knew  a  canon  of  P^ronne,  aged  ninety- 
two,  who  was  reared  by  one  of  the  most  infuriate  commoners 
of  The  League.     He  always  said   [in  speaking  of  the  assassin 
of  Henry  IV.],  Hhe  late  Ifonsieur  de  Ravaillac.'' "  "^     Being  at 
a  Jesuit  college,  he  could  not  fail  to  hear  something,  from  time 
to  time,  of  the  wondrous  attempts  of  the  Jesuits  in  Canada, 
,  made  familiar  to  modern  readers  through  the  works  of    Dr. 
1  Francis  Parkman.     He  even  knew  a  M.  Br^beuf,  grand-nephew 
'  of  that  Father  Brebeuf,  martyr,  bravest  of  the  brave,  whom 
I  Dr.  Parkman  has  so  nobly  delineated  in  his  "  Jesuits  in  North 
America."    Voltaire  heard  from  M.  Brdbeuf  an  anecdote  that 
may  have  come  from  the  missionary's  lips :  "  He  told  me  that 
his  grand-uncle,  the  Jesuit,  having  converted  a  pretty  little 
Canadian  boy,  the  tribe,  much  offended,  roasted  the  child,  ate 
him,  and  gave  a  choice  portion   \une  fesse]  to  the  reverend 
Father  Brebeuf,  who,  to  get  out  of  the  scrape,  said  it  was  a  fast 
with  him  that  day."  ^ 

From  such  slight  indications  as  these  we  can  infer  that,  little 
as  the  fathers  may  have  formally  taught  him  of  modern  histor}', 
he  was  not  inattentive  to  the  events  of  his  time,  and  gained 
some  knowledge  of  the  heroic  ages  of  France. 

A  comrade  of  Porde  was  Father  Tournemine,  an  inmate  of 
the  College  Louis-le-Grand,  though  not  officially  connected 
with  it.  He  conducted  a  monthly  magazine  for  the  Jesuits,  a 
kind  of  repository  of  historical  memoirs  and  pious  miscellany. 
He  was  a  doting  lover  of  such  literature  as  he  liked,  a  man  of 

1  Voltaire  et  ses  Maitres,  page  77. 

2  58  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  7.  . 
8  37  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  146. 


AT  SCHOOL.  37 

the  world,  a  genial,  easy  companion  to  young  and  old,  and 
held  in  high  esteem  in  the  college  as  literary  ornament  and 
arbiter.  Between  this  editor  and  young  Arouet  there  grew  an 
attachment  which  lasted  many  years  beyond  the  college  course 
of  the  boy,  and  intluenced  both  their  lives.  "  While  his  com- 
rades," says  Duvernet,  "strengthened  their  constitutions,  though 
thinking  only  of  amusing  themselves,  in  games,  races,  and 
other  bodily  exercises,  Voltaire  withdrew  from  the  playground 
to  go  and  strengthen  his  mind  in  conversation  with  Fathers 
Tournemine  and  Poree,  with  whom  he  passed  most  of  his  lei- 
sure ;  and  he  was  accustomed  to  say  to  those  who  rallied  him 
upon  his  indifference  to  the  pleasures  natural  to  his  age, 
'  Every  one  jumps  and  every  one  amuses  himself  in  his  own 
way.' " 

It  so  chanced  that  Tournemine  was  as  strenuous  a  partisan 
of  Corneille  as  Abb^  Chateauneuf  was  of  Racine,  whom  the 
Jesuits  held  to  be  a  Jansenist,  and  therefore  neither  poet  nor 
Christian.  "  In  my  infancy,"  says  Voltaire,  in  his  edition  of 
Corneille,  "  Father  Tournemine,  a  Jesuit,  an  extreme  partisan 
of  Corneille,  and  an  enemy  of  Racine,  whom  he  deemed  a 
Jansenist,  made  me  remark  this  passage  [Agesilaus  to  Lysan- 
der],  which  he  preferred  to  all  the  pieces  of  Racine."  The  pas- 
sage amply  justifies  the  remark  which  the  commentator  adds  : 
"Thus  prejudice  corrupts  the  taste,  as  it  perverts  the  judg- 
ment, in  all  the  concerns  of  life."  ^  Nevertheless,  that  very 
prejudice  of  the  amiable  Jesuit  may  have  served  the  pupil  as 
a  provocative  ;  and  we  can  easily  fancy  this  boy  defending  his 
favorite  dramatist  against  the  attacks  of  the  fathers,  aiming  at 
them  tlie  arguments  he  had  heard  at  home  from  his  mentor, 
Abb^  Chateauneuf. 

In  a  lai'ge  school  there  must  be,  of  course,  the  unpopular 
teacher,  who  is  not  always  the  least  worthy  one.  Father  Le- 
jay,  professor  of  rhetoric  of  many  years'  standing,  filled  this 
"role"  in  the  College  Louis-le-Grand.  He  was  a  strict,  zeal- 
ous, disagreeable  formalist;  "a  good  Jesuit,"  devoted  to  his 
order,  who  composed  and  compiled  many  large  volumes,  still 
to  be  seen  in  French  libraries  ;  a  dull,  plodding,  ambitious 
man,  with  an  ingredient  in  his  composition  of  that  quality 
which  has  given  to  the  word  Jesuit  its  peculiar  meaning  in 

1  67  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  301. 

83545 


38  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE 

modern  languages.  He  wrote  a  book  of  pious  sentences  for 
Every  Day  of  the  Week,  and  a  discourse  upon  the  "  Triumph 
of  Religion  under  Louis  XIV."  He  translated  and  annotated 
the  "  Roman  Antiquities  "  of  Denys  of  Halicarnassus,  compiled 
a  vast  work  upon  rhetoric,  wrote  upon  the  "  Duties  of  a  Chris- 
tian with  Regard  to  Faith  and  Conduct,"  wrote  tragedies  and 
comedies  in  Latin  and  in  French,  which  were  played  at  the 
college  by  the  boys,  with  the  "success"  that  invariably  at- 
tends such  performances.  These  dramas  of  the  professor  of 
rhetoric,  which  are  described  by  a  French  explorer  as  among 
the  curiosities  of  inanity,  reveal  the  interesting  fact  that  Father 
Lejay  had  a  particular  antipathy  to  "  philosophers,"  and  knew 
very  well  how  to  flatter  Louis  XIV.  by  abusing  them.  He  was 
indeed  much  given  to  politic  flattery,  each  of  his  works  being 
dedicated  to  some  great  man  of  the  hour  whom  his  order  or 
himself  was  interested  to  conciliate. 

Plays  w^ere  often  performed  at  this  school.  One  of  the  first 
comedies  presented  after  the  entrance  of  Francois  Arouet  was 
Lejay 's  "  Damocles,"  in  which  the  friend  of  Dionysius  is  held 
up  to  scorn  as  a  "philosopher,"  and  the  tyrant  is  presented  to 
the  admiration  of  the  auditors  as  an  ancient  Louis  XIV.  Dam- 
ocles is  remarkable  for  the  flowing  amplitude  of  his  beard,  in 
which  his  foolish  soul  delights,  and  his  favorite  saying  is,  "  Na- 
tions will  never  be  happy  until  kings  become  philosophers,  or 
philosophers  kings."  The  king  says,  at  length,  "  Very  well, 
be  it  so  ;  reign  in  my  place."  Damocles  reigns.  He  commits 
every  imbecile  folly  which  the  crude  mind  of  Father  Lejay 
could  imagine  or  boys  laugh  at.  The  people  rise  against  the 
"  philosopher,"  and  recall  Dionysius,  who  tears  the  royal  man- 
tle from  Damocles,  and  dooms  him  to  lose  his  noble  beard, 
more  precious  to  him  than  life.  The  crowning  scene  is  the 
last,  in  which  a  barber,  with  abundant  ceremony  and  endless 
comic  incident,  cuts  off  the  beard,  amid  applause  that  shook 
the  solid  walls  of  the  college.^  It  was  only  with  Father  Lejay 
that  the  young  Arouet  was  not  in  pleasant  accord  during  the 
seven  years  of  his  school  life.  The  anecdote  of  their  collision, 
vaguely  related  by  Duvernet,  came  doubtless  from  Voltaire 
himself,  even  to  some  of  the  words  which  Duvernet  employs  in 
telling  it :  — 

1  Voltaire  et  ses  Maitres,  page  108. 


AT  SCHOOL.  39 

"  Among  the  professors,  who  were  very  much  attached  to  him, 
Father  Lejay,  a  man  of  mediocre  ability,  vain,  jealous,  and  held  in 
little  esteem  by  his  colleagues,  was  the  only  one  whose  good-will  Vol- 
taire could  not  win.  He  was  professor  of  eloquence,  and,  like  most 
of  those  who  plume  themselves  upon  that  gift,  he  was  very  little 
eloquent.  He  was  regarded  as  the  Cotin  ^  of  orators.  Voltaire  had 
with  him  some  literary  discussions ;  the  master  felt  himself  humili- 
ated by  his  pupil,  and  this  was  the  source  of  that  antipathy  which 
Father  Lejay  had  for  Voltaire,  —  a  feeling  which  he  could  not  con- 
quer, nor  even  disguise.  One  day,  the  pupil,  exasperated  by  the 
professor,  gave  him  a  retort  of  a  certain  kind,  which  ought  not  to 
have  been  provoked,  and  which  it  had  been  discreet  in  the  instructor 
not  to  notice.  Father  Lejay,  in  his  rage,  descends  from  his  plat- 
form, runs  to  him,  seizes  him  by  the  collar,  and,  rudely  shaking  him, 
cries  out  several  times,  '  Wretch  !  You  will  one  day  be  the  stand- 
ard-bearer of  deism  in  France  ! '  " 

Such  a  scene  would  not,  in  that  age,  have  injured  the  auda- 
cious boy  in  the  opinion  of  his  comrades.  It  might  even  have 
made  him  the  hero  of  a  day ;  for  it  was  of  this  period  that 
Madame  of  Orleans  wrote,  when  she  entered  in  her  diary, 
"  Religious  belief  is  so  completely  extinct  in  this  country 
that  one  seldom  meets  a  young  man  who  does  not  wish  to 
pass  himself  off  as  an  atheist.  But  the  oddest  part  of  it 
is  that  the  very  person  who  professes  atheism  in  Paris  plays 
the  saint  at  court." 

1  A  pompous  and  arrogant  court   preacher  of   Louis  XIII.'s  time,  satirized 
by  Boileau  and  Moliere. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    SCHOOL    POET. 

All  things  pressed  tins  boy  toward  the  path  he  was  to 
follow.  Every  influence  to  which  he  was  subjected,  whether 
Vwithin  or  without  the  college,  stimulated  the  development  of 
pis  peculiar  aptitudes. 

In  the  France  of  Louis  XIV.  there  were  five  illustrious 
names  that  did  not  belong  to  men  of  rank  in  church  or  state, 
and  they  were  all  the  names  of  poets :  Corneille,  Racine, 
[Moliere,  Boileau,  and  J.  B.  Rousseau.  These  alone  of  the 
commoners  of  France  could  be  supposed  worthy  to  be  guests 
at  great  houses,  and  sit  with  princes  in  the  king's  presence. 
These  five  :  Corneille,  a  lawyer's  son ;  Racine  and  Boileau, 
sons  of  small  placemen ;  Moliere,  the  son  of  a  Paris  up- 
holsterer;  J.  B.  Rousseau,  the  child  of  the  Arouet  family's 
shoemaker.  The  boy  Rousseau  may  have  carried  home  shoes 
to  the  notary's  house  ;  but  the  proudest  head  in  France  was 
proud  to  bow  to  Rousseau  the  poet.  The  diaries  of  that  gen- 
eration attest  the  estimation  in  which  the  verse-making  art 
V  was  held,  and  the   great  number  of  persons  who  tried  their 

hands  at  it.  Yerse  was  the  one  road  to  glory  open  to  name- 
less youth,  the  career  of  arms  being  an  exclusive  preserve  of 
feudal  rank. 

We  have  seen  that  the  professors  with  whom  this  lad  had 
most  to  do  wrote  plays  in  prose  and  in  verse.  The  per- 
formance of  those  works  on  the  great  days  of  the  school  year 
absorbed  such  an  amount  of  time  and  toil  that  we  might 
suppose  the  college  a  training-school  of  actors.  There  was 
the  little  drama  and  the  grand  drama :  the  first  consisting  of 
farces  and  burlesques,  in  Latin  or  in  French,  or  in  both ;  the 
second  of  tragedies,  in  Latin.  The  little  drama  was  pre- 
sented in  one  of  the  college  halls  a  few  days  before  the  end 
of  the  school  year,  and   was  witnessed  only  by  the  inmates ; 


THE  SCHOOL  POET.  41 

the  plays  being  short,  the  comic  effects  simple,  and  the 
mounting  inexpensive.  The  grand  drama,  reserved  for  the 
final  day,  when  the  prizes  were  given,  —  the  solemn  day  of 
judgment  of  a  French  school,  —  was  given  in  the  great  court 
of  the  college,  converted  for  the  occasion  into  a  vast  tent. 
The  play  was  usually  m  five  acts,  and  "  entire  months  "  were 
employed  in  drilling  the  young  performers,  rehearsing  the 
play,  and  preparing  the  scenes.  The  stage  was  set  up  at  the 
further  end  of  the  court,  opposite  the  great  gate-way,  and  the 
interior  was  all  gay  with  banners,  flags,  streamers,  lapestiy, 
emblems,  devices,  and  mottoes.  The  families  of  the  pupils 
were  invited,  and  places  of  honor  were  reserved  for  the  chiefs 
of  the  Jesuit  order,  for  bishops  and  archbishops,  and  for 
members  of  the  royal  family  ;  the  king  himself  being  some- 
times present.  The  five-act  Latin  play,  on  some  subject  of 
classic  antiquity,  was  tlie  prelude  to  the  great  event  of  the 
occasion,  the  distribution  of  the  prizes  ;  and  as  the  performers 
were  generally  the  boys  who  were  to  receive  prizes,  it  was  a 
day  of  intoxicating  glory  to  them,  the  applause  bestowed 
upon  the  actor  being  renewed  and  emphasized  when  he  stood 
up  to  receive  the  public  recognition  of  a  year's  good  con- 
duct. On  some  occasions  there  was  a  mock  trial,  and  the 
reading  of  poems  composed  by  the  pupils.  The  acting  of  cha- 
rades was  also  a  part  of  the  school  festivities,  and  they  were 
performed  very  much  as  we  do  them  now  at  holiday  times, 
although  with  more  formality.^ 

If  these  provocatives  to  literature  were  not  sufficient,  there 
were  Literary  Societies  in  the  institution,  not  unlike  those  of 
American  colleges  at  the  present  time.  These  were  styled  in 
the  Jesuit  schools  of  that  period  "  Academies  ; "  and,  as  the 
Jesuits  invented  them,  no  reader  needs  to  be  told  that  the  ses- 
sions were  presided  over  by  one  of  the  father  professors.  In 
other  respects,  there  was  no  material  difference  between  the 
Academy  for  which  Fran(^ois  Arouet  composed  and  declaimed 
and  any  Gamma-Delta  society  of  an  American  college  of  the 
present  time.  The  members  debated,  read  poems  of  their  own 
composition,  declaimed  those  of  others,  and  did  all  those  acts 
and  things  which  readers  remember  as  part  of  their  own  joy- 
ous school  experience.  The  tradition  of  the  college  is  that 
1  Voltaire  et  ses  Maitres,  page  28,  etc. 


42  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  violent  scene  with  Father  Lejay,  just  related,  occurred, 
not  in  class,  as  Duvernet  has  it,  but  during  a  debate  in  the 
Academy,  Lejay  presiding. 

Thus  stimulated  to  productivity  young  Arouet  soon  became, 
and  to  the  end  of  his  course  remained,  the  prodigy  of  the  Col- 
lege Louis-le-Grand.  Some  of  his  early  spurts  of  verse  have 
been  preserved.  Father  Por(^e,  being  surprised  one  day  by 
the  end  of  the  hour,  and  having  no  time  to  dictate  a  theme, 
hastily  said,  as  the  bell  summoned  the  class  away,  "  Make 
Nero  speak  at  the  moment  when  he  is  about  to  kill  himself." 
The  boy  handed  in  these  lines  :  — 

"  De  la  mort  d'une  mere  execrable  complice, 
Si  je  meurs  de  ma  main,  je  I'ai  bien  me'rite; 
Et,  n'aj'ant  jamais  fait  qu'actes  de  cruaute, 
J'ai  voulu,  me  tnant,  en  faire  un  de  justice."^ 

On  another  occasion,  in  the  same  class,  he  amused  himself 
by  throwing  up  and  catching  a  snuff-box.  Father  Por^e  took 
it  from  him,  and  required  him  to  redeem  it  by  composing  some 
verses.     He  produced  the  following  :  — 

SUE  UNE  TABATlfeRE  CONFISQUfiE. 

Adieu,  ma  pauvre  tabatiere  ; 

Adieu,  je  ne  te  verrai  plus ; 

Ni  soins,  ni  larmes,  ni  priere, 
Ne  te  rendront  a  moi ;  mes  efforts  sent  perdus. 

Adieu,  ma  pauvre  tabatiere  ; 

Adieu,  doux  fruit  de  mes  ecus  ! 
S'il  faut  a  prix  d'argent  te  racheter  encore, 
J'irai  plutot  vider  les  tresors  de  Plutus. 
Mais  ce  n'est  pas  ce  dieu  que  Ton  veut  que  j'implore ; 
Pour  te  revoir,  helas  !  il  faut  prier  Phebus. 
Qu'on  oppose  entre  nous  uue  forte  barriere  ! 
Me  demander  des  vers !  helas  !  je  n'en  puis  plus. 

Adieu,  ma  pauvre  tabatiere ; 

Adieu,  je  ne  te  verrai  plus.'^ 

1  Of  the  death  of  a  mother  the  execrable  accomplice,  if  I  die  by  my  own  hand, 
I  have  deserved  it  well ;  and,  having  until  now  done  only  acts  of  cruelty,  I  have 
wished,  in  killing  myself,  to  do  one  of  justice. 

2  UPON  A  CONFISCATED  SNUFF-BOX. 

Adieu,  my  poor  snuff-box  ;  adieu,  I  shall  never  see  thee  more;  nor  pains,  nor 
tears,  nor  prayer  will  give  thee  back  to  me ;  my  efforts  are  lost.  Adieu,  my  poor 
snuff-box ;  adieu,  sweet  fruit  of  my  crowns.  If  money  was  the  price  of  thy  re- 
demption, I  would  rather  go  and  empty  the  treasury  of  Pluto.  But  it  is  not  that 
god  whom  I  am  required  to  implore.  To  get  a  sight  of  thee  again,  I  must,  alas ! 
address  a  prayer  to  Phoebus.  What  an  obstacle  is  interposed  between  us !  To 
ask  verses  of  me !  Alas !  I  can  produce  no  more  of  them.  Adieu,  my  poor 
snuff-box  ;  I  shall  never  see  thee  more. 


THE   SCHOOL  POET.  43 

Other  light  verses,  composed  in  his  earlier  school  years,  have 
been  preserved ;  but  these  will  suffice  to  show  that,  while  still 
a  child,  he  had  a  degree  of  the  literary  tact  of  which  he  was 
afterwards  a  master.  As  if  to  make  amends  to  Father  Lejay, 
he  translated  into  French  verse  a  Latin  poem  of  that  professor, 
of  a  hundred  lines  or  more,  upon  Sainte  Genevieve,  always  a 
very  popular  saint  in  Paris,  even  to  this  day.  The  poem  is  of 
the  purest  orthodoxy.  A  more  popular  effort  among  his  com- 
rades was  a  translation  into  four  French  lines  of  an  old  Latin 
stanza  upon  bell-ringers,  in  which  the  poet  gives  utterance  to 
a  desire,  common  to  students,  that  the  rope  held  in  the  hand 
of  the  ringer  might  be  twisted  around  his  neck. 

It  is  not  possible  to  fix  the  date  of  these  poems,  but  we  are 
sure  of  one  thing :  before  he  was  eleven  years  of  age,  and  be-  7 
fore  he  had  been  at  school  a  year,  he  was  recognized  and  -^ 
shown  as  a  wonder  of  precocious  talent.  We  are  sure  of  this, 
because  it  was  in  the  character  of  a  wondrous  boy-poet  that 
Abb^  Chateauneuf  presented  him  to  a  personage  still  more 
wondrous.  Mademoiselle  Ninon  de  Lenclos,  then  in  her  nine- 
tieth year,  but  still  the  centre  of  a  brilliant  circle.  She  died 
in  October,  1705,  when  Franqois  Arouet  was  not  quite  eleven 
years  of  age.  Ladies  of  the  higliest  rank,  we  are  assured, 
paid  court  to  this  anomalous  being,  and  besought  her,  even  in 
extreme  old  age,  to  "  form  "  their  sons  by  permitting  them  to 
frequent  her  evening  parties.  An  uncomely  young  dandy  hav- 
ing boasted  that  he  had  been  "  formed  "  b}'^  her,  she  said,  "  I 
am  like  God,  who  repented  that  he  had  made  man."  Moliere 
consulted  her  upon  his  comedies,  and  .caught  from  her  conver- 
sation some  traits  of  his  masterpiece,  Tartuffe.  She  lived  in 
elegance  and  luxury  all  her  days,  courted  by  the  courted,  ad- 
mired by  the  admired,  envied  by  the  envied,  sung  by  poets, 
loved  by  priests,  reprobated,  so  far  as  we  can  perceive,  by  no 
one. 

And  who  was  Ninon  de  Lenclos  ?  She  Avas  a  country 
beauty,  the  child  of  gentle  parents:  her  mother  a  good  Cath- 
olic ;  her  father  a  "  philosopher  "  of  the  sect  of  Epicurus,  who 
taught  her  early  that  there  ought  not  to  be  one  moral  law  for 
the  male  of  our  sj^ecies,  and  another  for  the  female.  She  be- 
lieved him,  and  inferred  that  there  was  no  moral  law  for 
either.     At  seventeen  she  became  the  mistress  of  the  Cardinal 


44  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

de  Richelieu,  who  gave  her  a  pension  for  life  of  two  thousand 
francs  a  year,  a  competence  at  that  period,  upon  which  she  set 
up  in  the  vocation  of  Epicurienne.  Ninon  was  "  an  honest 
man,"  sa3'S  a  French  writer,  "  because  she  only  had  one  lover 
at  a  time."  But  she  changed  them  so  suddenly  that  she  was 
unable  herself  to  decide  a  claim  to  the  paternity  of  one  of  her 
children,  and  the  two  contestants  decided  the  matter  by  a  cast 
of  the  dice.  The  boy  who  thus  won  a  father  rose  to  high  rank 
in  the  French  navy,  and  died  in  battle. 

An  anecdote  more  astounding  is  related  of  her  by  Voltaire, 
who  doubtless  heard  it  from  the  Abbd  de  Chateauneuf.  Near 
the  gate  St.  Antoine  there  was  a  restaurant,  much  frequented 
by  "  honest  people,"  like  Mademoiselle  de  Lenclos  and  her 
abb^.  One  evening,  after  supper  there,  a  young  man  of  nine- 
teen, who  had  been  one  of  the  party,  met  her  in  the  garden, 
and  made  such  importunate  love  to  her  that  she  was  obliged 
to  tell  him  that  she  was  his  mother.  The  young  man,  who 
had  come  to  the  place  on  horseback,  took  a  pistol  from  his 
holsters  and  shot  himself  dead  in  the  garden.  This  tragic 
event  made  her  "  a  little  more  serious,"  but  it  did  not  change 
her  way  of  life,  nor  lower  her  in  the  regard  of  her  friends. 

She  was  a  strict  observer  of  the  proprieties  of  life,  took  such 
care  of  her  fortune  as  to  quadruple  the  income  her  first  lover 
assigned  her,  and  gradually  drew  around  her  the  most  agree- 
able and  distinguished  people  in  the  kingdom, —  ladies  as  well 
as  men.  For  seventy  years  she  held  her  ground :  admired  at 
first  for  her  beauty,  grace,  and  hereditary  musical  gifts  ;  ad- 
mired later  for  her  "prudence,"  her  "judgment,"  her  good 
nature,  her  social  talents,  and  her  sure  taste  in  literature.  She 
is  said  to  have  held  in  contempt  and  abliorrence  certain  foibles 
occasionally  noticed  in  other  women,  such  as  falsehood,  jeal- 
ousy, malice,  and  ill-temper.  Friendship  she  deemed  a  pre- 
cious and  sacred  thing ;  but  as  to  love,  she  looked  upon  it, 
says  Voltaire,  as  a  mere  pastime,  imposing  no  moral  obliga- 
tions; and  it  was  her  boast  that  her  lovers  remained  her 
friends  and  the  friends  of  one  another.  The  father  of  the 
young  man  who  shot  liimself  abandoned  Madame  de  Mainte- 
non  (afterwards  the  king's  wife)  to  pay  court  to  Ninon,  and 
yet  madame  remained  her  friend,  and  pressed  her  to  come  and 
live  in  the  palace,  and  help  amuse  her  unamusable  old  king. 
She  used  to  say  that  she  had  never  offered  but  one  prayer. 


THE   SCHOOL  POET.  45 

"  My  God,  make  me  an  honest  man,  but  never  an  honest 
woman."  ^ 

All  this  being  scarcely  conceivable  by  us,  it  were  of  no  avail 
to  enlarge  upon  it.  To  feel  the  full  force  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  social  laws  of  two  contemporary  communities,  both 
called  Christian,  we  have  only  to  reflect  that  this  was  the  pe- 
riod assigned  by  Hawthorne  to  the  incidents  of  the  "  Scarlet 
Letter." 

She  was  "as  dry  as  a  mummy"  when  the  little  poet  was 
taken  to  see  her,  —  "a  wrinkled,  decrepit  creature,  who  had 
nothing  upon  her  bones  but  a  yellow  skin  that  was  turning^ 
black."     He  gives  this  account  of  their  meeting :  — 

"  I  had  written  some  verses,  which  were  of  no  value,  but  seemed 
very  good  for  my  age.  Mademoiselle  de  Lenclos  had  formerly  known 
my  mother,  who  was  much  attached  to  the  Abbe  de  Chateauneuf ;  and 
thus  it  was  found  a  pleasant  thing  to  take  me  to  see  her.  The  abbe 
was  master  of  her  house  ;  it  was  he  who  had  finished  the  amorous  his- 
tory of  that  singular  person.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  do  not 
require  the  attraction  of  youth  in  women  ;  and  the  charms  of  her  so- 
ciety had  upon  him  the  effect  of  beauty.  She  made  him  languish  two 
or  three  days  ;  and  the  abbe  having  asked  her  why  she  had  held  out 
so  long,  she  replied  that  she  had  wished  to  wait  until  her  birthday  for 
so  beautiful  a  gala ;  and  on  that  day  she  was  just  seventy.  She  did 
not  carry  the  jest  very  far,  and  the  Abbe  de  Chateauneuf  remained 
her  intimate  friend.  For  my  part,  I  was  presented  to  her  a  httle 
later ;  she  was  then  eighty-five  [eighty-nine].  It  pleased  her  to  put 
me  in  her  will ;  she  left  me  two  thousand  francs  to  buy  books  with. 
Her  death  occurred  soon  after  my  visit." 

This  legacy,  which,  as  Voltaire  more  than  once  records,  was 
punctually  paid,  confirms  the  version  of  the  Abbe  Duvernet, 
who  says  that  the  aged  Ninon  was  delighted  with  the  boy. 
Her  house,  in  the  Rue  des  Tournelles,  was,  he  assures  us,  "  a 
school  of  good  breeding,  and  the  rendezvous  of  philosophers 
and  wits,  whom  she  knew  how  to  please  and  interest  even  in 
her  decrepitude."  All  pleased  her  in  the  lad,  —  his  confidence, 
his  repartees,  and,  above  all,  his  information.  She  ques- 
tioned him  upon  the  topic  of  the  day,  —  the  deadly  feud  be- 
tween the  sincere,  austere  Jansenists  and  the  politic,  scholarly 
Jesuits,  then  approaching  its  climax  in  the  destruction  of  Port 
Royal.     Doubtless  he  had  his  little  say  upon  that  subject,  and 

1  63  CEuvrcs  de  Voltaire,  163. 


46  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

spoke  in  the  "  decided  tone  "  whicli  the  abb^  mentions.    Ninon, 
he  remarks,  "  saw  in  him  the  germ  of  a  great  man  ;  and  it  was 
to  warm  that  germ  into  hfe  that  she  left  him  the  legacy  to  buy 
books,  —  a  gift  at  once  the  most  flattering  and  the  most  useful  * 
to  a  young  man  whose  sole  passion  was  to  instruct  himself." 

The  legacy  was  indeed  most  flattering.  What  a  stimulus 
to  a  susceptible  boy  of  eleven,  already  conscious  of  his  powers, 
and  living  in  the  midst  of  a  society  who  assumed  that  the  com- 
position of  good  French  verse  was  among  the  most  glorious  of 
all  possible  feats  of  the  mind !  The  next  year,  being  in  the 
fifth  class,  he  began  a  tragedy  upon  the  story,  told  in  Livy,  of 
Amulius,  king  of  Alba,  the  wicked  uncle  of  those  babes  in 
the  woods,  Romulus  and  Remvis.  He  called  his  play  "  Amu- 
lius and  Numitor."  He  kept  it  many  years  among  his  papers, 
but  threw  it  at  length  into  the  fire. 

While  still  in  the  fifth  class  his  fame  reached  the  court. 
An  invalid  soldier,  who  had  served  under  the  immediate  com- 
mand of  the  king's  only  son  and  heir,  came  to  the  college  one 
day,  and  asked  the  regent  to  write  for  him  a  petition  in  verse 
to  the  prince  for  aid  in  his  sickness  and  poverty.  The  regent 
referred  him  to  Arouet,  who  wrote  twenty  lines  for  him  in 
half  an  hour.  He  made  the  old  soldier  address  the  prince  as 
"  the  worthy  son  of  the  greatest  of  kings,"  his  love,  the  peo- 
ple's hope,  "  who,  without  reigning  over  France,  reigned  over 
the  hearts  of  the  French."  "  Will  you  permit  me,"  ran  the 
petition,  "  to  present  a  new  year's  gift  to  you,  who  only  re- 
ceive them  from  the  hand  of  the  gods  ?  At  your  birth,  they 
say.  Mars  gave  you  valor,  Minerva  wisdom,  Apollo  beauty  ; 
but  a  god  more  powerful,  whom  in  my  anguish  I  implore,  de- 
signed to  bestow  new  year  gifts  upon  me  in  giving  you  liber- 
ality." The  petition  brought  a  few  golden  louis  to  the  sol- 
dier, and  made  some  little  noise  at  Versailles  and  Paris.  It 
is  said  also  to  have  renewed  the  alarm  of  his  father,  lest  so 
much  flattery  bestowed  upon  a  casual  exertion  of  his  son's  tal- 
ents should  lure  him  from  the  path  wliich  leads  to  rich  clients 
and  liberal  fees.  This  versified  petition  was  the  best  of  his 
school  poems  that  has  been  preserved,  and  was  really  turned 
with  much  elegance  and  ingenuity.  For  a  boy  of  twelve  to  de- 
vise a  compliment  for  Louis  XIV.  or  his  race,  after  half  a  cent- 
ury of  incense,  that  should  attract  a  moment's  attention  from 
king  or  court  must  certainly  be  accounted  a  kind  of  triumph. 


THE   SCHOOL  TOET.  47 

He  did  not  neglect  the  ordinary  studies  of  the  school.  At 
the  close  of  his  sixth  year,  in  August,  1710,  on  the  day  of  the 
distribution  of  prizes,  he  enjoyed  extraordinar}^  honors.  Prize 
after  prize,  crown  after  crown  (if  we  may  believe  tradition), 
was  awarded  him,  until  he  was  covered  with  crowns  and  stag- 
gered under  the  weight  of  his  prize  books.  Among  the  guests 
in  the  grand  pavilion  was  the  poet  J.  B.  Rousseau,  then  in  the 
prime  of  manhood,  the  lustre  of  his  fame  undimmed.  The 
name  of  Franqois-Marie  Arouet  caught  his  ear,  and  he  asked 
one  of  the  fathers  if  the  lad  was  the  son  of  Maitre  Arouet,  of 
the  Chamber  of  Accounts,  whom  he  knew.  The  professor  said 
he  was,  and  that  he  had  shown  for  some  years  a  marvelous  tal- 
ent for  poetry.  Then  the  professor  took  the  boy  by  the  hand, 
all  covered  with  crowns  and  laden  with  glory,  and  presented 
him  to  the  poet.  Rousseau  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks,  as  the 
French  do  at  such  times,  congratulated  him  warmly  upon  the 
honors  he  had  received,  and  foretold  for  him  a  brilliant  future. 
The  scholar,  with  equal  enthusiasm,  threw  his  arms  around 
the  poet's  neck,  amid  the  emotion  and  applause  of  the  as- 
sembly. 

And  so  he  went  on,  triumphantly  and  happily,  to  the  end  of 
his  seven  years'  course ;  a  good  scholar,  a  favorite  of  his  teach- 
ers, admired  by  all  his  companions,  and  by  some  of  them  be- 
loved. His  friends  at  school  remained  his  friends  as  long  as 
they  lived,  and  some  of  them  lived  to  witness  and  to  solace  his 
last  days.  The  warmest,  tenderest,  and  longest  friendships  of 
his  life  were  formed  at  the  College  Louis-le-Grand,  and  his  in- 
structors followed  his  career  with  interest  and  pride,  despite  the 
human  foibles  and  the  French  faults  that  marred  it.  There  is 
no  question  that  his  life  at  school  was  happy  and  honorable, 
and  both  in  a  high  degree.  He  made  the  most  of  his  chances 
there,  such  as  they  were. 

These  seven  years,  so  brilliant  and  so  fortunate  for  him  in 
the  safe  seclusion  of  a  school,  were  the  darkest  France  had 
known  since  the  time  of  Jeanne  Dare ;  for  it  was  then  that  the 
French  people  had  to  pay  large  installments  of  the  penalty  of 
enduring  for  half  a  century  an  ignorant  and  incomi)etent  king. 
The  defeat  of  Blenheim,  in  Arouet's  first  year  at  school,  was 
followed  by  that  of  Ramilies  in  1706,  while  he  was  writing  his 
tragedy  upon  the  bad  uncle  of  Romulus  and  Remus.     Defeat 


48  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

followed  defeat,  until  in  1709  occurred  the  crowning  disaster 
of  Malplaquet.  There  were  times,  as  this  boy  remembered, 
when  Paris  itself  dreaded  the  victor's  approach  ;  and  he  never 
forgot  the  famine  of  1709,  when,  besides  the  catastrophe  of 
Malplaquet,  the  olives  failed,  the  fruit  trees  were  nipped  by 
frost,  the  harvest  was  ruined,  the  British  fleet  captured  the 
grain  ships  coming  from  the  East,  and  the  cold  of  the  winter 
was  extreme.  His  father  had  to  pay  a  hundred  francs  extra 
for  him  at  the  college  that  year,  and  yet  he  had  to  eat  brown 
bread.  Probably  he  meant  oaten  bread,  which  Madame  de 
Maintenon  set  the  example  of  eating  at  Versailles.  The  king 
sent  to  the  mint  that  year  four  hundred  thousand  francs'  worth 
of  gold  plate,  and  there  was  a  general  melting  of  silver  plate 
from  great  houses. 

The  old  king  had  his  share  of  sorrow  and  humiliation.  It 
was  in  April,  1711,  young  Arouet's  last  year  at  school,  that 
the  series  of  deaths  began  in  the  royal  family,  the  mere  rec- 
ollection of  which,  many  years  after,  brought  tears  to  suscep- 
tible French  eyes.  The  king's  only  son,  the  dauphin,  died  of 
i  small-pox  in  that  month.  The  next  February  his  son,  the  new 
\  dauphin,  died ;  and,  three  weeks  after,  his  son,  leaving  to 
France  only  a  boy  of  two  years,  "  within  two  fingers  of  death," 
who  became  Louis  XV.  Paris  saw  father,  mother,  and  son  all 
borne  to  the  tomb  in  the  same  hearse.  The  hardest  hearts,  the 
wisest  heads,  forgave  the  stricken  king  for  the  woes  unnum- 
bered he  had  brought  upon  his  country  through  his  subservi- 
ence to  priests.  Our  young  student,  when  he  came,  half  a 
century  later,  to  treat  of  these  events,  in  his  "  Age  of  Louis 
XIV.,"  wrote,  "  This  time  of  desolation  left  in  the  hearts  of 
men  an  impression  so  profound  that,  during  the  minority  of 
Louis  XV.,  I  knew  several  persons  who  could  not  speak  of 
these  losses  without  tears."  ^ 

He  remembered,  also,  that  at  the  period  when  Marlborough 
seemed  about  to  come  thundering  at  the  gates  of  Paris,  the 
minds  of  men  were  distracted  by  what  seem  to  us  trifling  re- 
ligious disputes.  But  at  that  time  nothing  was  trifling  that 
savored  of  religion,  for  behind  it  all  there  was  the  dungeon,  the 
torture-chamber,  the  ba3^onet,  the  axe,  the  wheel,  the  fagot. 
He  remembered  that,  about  the  time  when  he  was  crowned  and 
applauded  in  the  presence  of  Rousseau,  a  Jewess  and  her  daugh- 

1  26  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  376. 


THE  SCHOOL  POET.  49 

ter  were  burned  at  Lisbon  for  some  trivial  act  of  eating  lamb 
at  the  season  when  priests  said  meat  must  not  be  eaten.  The 
story  circulated  in  the  school  that  the  girl  was  ravish ingly 
beautiful,  but  he  declares  that  it  was  not  her  beauty  that  drew 
the  tears  from  his  eyes  when  he  heard  the  tale. 

And  at  that  very  time,  perhaps  at  the  moment  when  the 
young  poet  heard  his  name  called  in  the  splendid  pavilion,  the 
light  of  victory  may  have  gleamed  in  the  eyes  of  every  Jesuit 
in  Paris  on  account  of  the  destruction  of  the  convent  of  Port 
Royal,  near  Versailles.  The  fundamental  article  of  religion 
with  Louis  XIV.  was  the  royal  authority,  and  hence  he  re- 
garded heresy  as  rebellion.  Long  he  hesitated  before  proceed- 
ing to  extremities  with  the  Jansenist  ladies  of  Port  Royal  in 
the  Fields,  so  renowned  were  they  for  piety  and  good  works, 
so  revered  by  the  solid  men  of  Paris.  But  his  confessor,  Tel- 
lier,  gave  him  no  peace,  and  the  bewildered  old  king  sent  a 
confidential  servant  of  his  household  to  the  convent  to  see 
what  manner  of  persons  its  inmates  were.  "  By  my  faith, 
sire,"  said  the  man  on  his  return,  "  I  saw  there  nothing  but 
saints,  male  and  female."  The  king  sighed,  and  said  nothing. 
The  confessor,  divining  his  thought,  assured  him  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  world  so  dangerous  as  the  virtues  with  which 
the  poison  of  heresy  was  frequently  covered.  The  fatal  order 
was  given.  The  ladies  were  distributed  among  the  convents  of 
the  kingdom,  and  their  abode  was  utterly  destroyed,  so  that 
not  one  stone  remained  upon  another.^ 

Young  Arouet  could  not  escape  a  knowledge  of  these  events, 
so  dear  to  every  Jesuit.  In  the  very  street  in  which  his  college 
was  situated  there  was  the  Abbey  of  Port  Royal  of  Paris,  a 
kindred  establishment  to  the  one  near  Versailles.  He  lived 
close  to  these  events,  and  was  old  enough  to  feel  the  infinite 
frivolity  of  the  dispute  which  a  priest  could  use  as  a  pretext  for 
such  atrocities.  During  his  last  year  at  school,  1711,  he  may 
have  seen  men  digging  up  the  bones  of  the  eminent  persons 
buried  near  the  destroyed  convent,  and  conveying  them  to  a 
village  church-yard  near  by ;  and,  during  his  whole  school  life, 
the  soldiers  of  the  king  were  hunting  Protestants  in  the  mount- 
ains of  Cdvennes  for  magistrates  to  break  upon  the  wheel,  to 
hang  upon  gibbets,  to  put  to  the  torture,  and  burn  at  the  stake. 

^  Me'moires  Secrets,  par  Duclos. 

VOL.  I.  4 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WILD  OATS. 

After  the  poetry  of  school  comes  the  prose  of  life. 
Youth,  young  companions,  zealous  and  friendly  teachers, 
mental  food  composed  chiefly  of  the  sweets  and  dainties  of 
three  or  four  literatures,  render  school  and  college  a  land  of 
enchantment,  compared  with  which  the  ordinary  life  of  man, 
with  its  unromantic  duties  and  jostling  indifference,  seems 
at  first  a  cheerless  highway.  It  seems  such  even  to  an  ordi- 
nary student,  who  has  won  no  crowns,  written  no  verses,  and 
had  no  legacy  left  him  by  a  famous  personage.  But  this  boy 
was  (the  young  Voltaire,  who,  at  ten,  had  gone  from  a  no- 
tary's abode  to  associate  familiarly  for  seven  years  witli  the 
sons  of  grand  seigneurs,  colonels  and  governors  from  their 
cradles,  and  destined  to  all  kinds  of  alluring  brilliancies. 
And  he  had  gained  a  kind  of  triumph  over  them.  He  had 
discovered  that  he  had  something  within  him  which  could 
hold  its  own,  in  favorable  circumstances,  against  stars  and 
titles. 

In  August,  1711,  when  he  left  school,  he  was  nearly  seven- 
teen, tall  for  his  age,  not  handsome,  having  only  one  decided 
beauty,  —  brilliant,  piercing  eyes,  which  strangers  always 
remarked.  The  Jesuit  fathers  took  great  pains  to  form 
the  manners  of  their  pupils,  and  this  lad  had  profited  by  it. 
He  was  always  nice  in  his  person  and  in  his  personal  habits, 
particular  to  have  about  him  the  more  elegant  conveniences 
of  the  toilette,  and  keenly  alive  to  the  importance  of  being 
agreeable.  The  flashing  quickness  of  his  mind  rendered  his 
conversation  at  all  times  interesting,  and  gave  him  a  talent 
for  repartee  which  the  French  at  that  time  excessively  over- 
valued. From  his  twelfth  to  his  eighty-fourth  year  he  was  a 
sayer  of  smart  things  that  minister  to  the  necessities  of  the 
vast  multitude  who  are  indebted  to  their  memory  for  their 
jests. 


WILD  OATS.  51 

The  vacation  over,  Maitre  Arouet  pressed  his  son  to  think 
of  a  profession.  "  I  desire  none,"  said  the  youth,  "  except 
that  of  literature."  The  father  replied,  "  Literature  is  the 
profession  of  a  man  who  wishes  to  be  useless  to  society,  a  bur- 
den to  his  relations,  and  to  die  of  hunger."  ^  The  rest  of 
the  family  sided  with  the  father  in  combating  the  young 
man's  choice  ;  and,  at  that  moment,  the  very  servants  in  his 
father's  kitchen  may  have  joined  in  dissuading  him.  "  The 
affair  of  the  couplets "  had  broken  out  in  Paris,  covering 
literature  itself  with  opprobrium,  and  overwhelming  with 
shame  and  ruin  one  of  its  most  ilkistrious  living  ornaments, 
the  poet  J.  B.  Rousseau.  From  being  the  favorite  of  princes, 
ladies,  and  bishops,  he  had  suddenly  come  to  naught,  and 
had  fled  from  Paris,  never  to  return  to  it  in  honor.  Strange 
to  say,  there  was  involved  in  his  peril  and  disgrace  a  cob- 
bler's apprentice,  the  son  of  Maitre  Arouet's  charwoman.  It 
was  a  childish  business  ;  but,  under  a  "  paternal  government," 
an  affair  too  trivial  for  mention  may  become  terrible  and  des- 
olating. 

Some  scandalous,  vituperative  couplets  had  been  mys- 
teriously dropped  in  a  noted  cafe  much  frequented  by  the 
literary  men  whom  the  couplets  assailed.  Rousseau,  sus- 
pected of  having  wi'itten  them,  accused  Joseph  Saurin,  a 
teacher  of  mathematics  in  the  neighborhood,  and  made  out 
so  strong  a  case  against  him  that  he  was  arrested  and  held 
for  trial.  But  Saurin  was  an  able  and  resolute  man,  with 
powerful  friends,  and  he  defended  himself  with  so  much 
skill  and  effect  as  to  secure  his  own  release  and  Rousseau's 
arraignment.  One  of  Saurin's  witnesses  was  the  boy  just 
mentioned,  who  had  been  employed  to  convey  some  of  the 
couplets  to  the  coffee-house,  —  a  task  in  which  he  had  been 
assisted  by  a  little  shoe-black.  The  terror  of  the  mother,  on 
hearing  of  her  son's  arrest,  was  extreme,  and  she  deafened 
all  the  quarter  with  her  outcries,  saying  that  her  son  would 
be  hanged.  Francois  Arouet,  as  it  chanced,  was  at  home  ; 
the  outbreak  having  occurred  in  the  vacation  following  his 
scene  with  the  poet.  "  Take  comfort,  my  good  woman," 
said  he  ;  "  there  is  no  hanging  to  be  afraid  of.  Rousseau, 
a  shoemaker's  ^on,  suborns  a  cobbler,  who,  you  say,  is  the 

1  Duvemet,  chapter  iii. 


52  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

accomplice  of  a  shoe-black.  All  that  does  n't  go  above  the 
ankle." 

The  case  looked  so  black  for  Rousseau  that  he  did  not 
appear  at  his  trial,  and  was  consequently  condemned  as  "  con- 
tumacious," and  sentenced  to  banishment  and  the  confiscation 
of  his  goods.     He  was  a  ruined  man. 

On  his  death-bed  he  solemnly  declared  his  innocence  ;  and 
he  probably  was  innocent  of  writing  the  couplets.  Voltaire 
knew  the  truth,  and  drops  intimations  of  it  here  and  there 
in  his  writings.  A  knot  of  witty  fellows,  Saurin  being  one 
of  them,  who  were  in  the  habit  of  meeting  for  convivial  pur- 
poses, amused  themselves  by  writing  personal  couplets,  which 
Rousseau  may  have  been  mischievous  enough  to  bring  to  the 
notice  of  the  subjects  of  them.  This  trivial  affair,  besides 
blasting  the  career  of  an  exquisite  poet,  one  of  the  glories  of 
French  literature,  rent  Paris  into  two  impassioned  factions, 
brought  reproach  upon  literary  pursuits,  and  remains  to  this 
day  a  discredit  to  all  who  were  concerned  in  it.^ 

Maitre  Arouet,  the  prudent  father,  and  Armand  Arouet, 
"  my  Jansenist  of  a  brother,"  could  both  find  argument  in 
it  against  a  literary  career.  Armand  was  then  twenty-seven 
years  of  age,  and,  more  a  Jansenist  than  ever,  carrying  an  ex- 
(  treme  to  an  extreme.  Our  youth  yielded  to  their  united  op- 
position ;  he  was  enrolled  among  the  students  of  law  in  Paris, 
and  attended  the  lectures.  He  also  entered  upon  a  course  of 
lessons  in  geometry  and  metaphysics  with  Saurin,  whose  con- 
duct in  the  affair  of  the  couplets  had  given  him  a  great  in- 
crease of  celebrity.  For  three  years  he  studied  under  Saurin. 
He  owns  that  he  heard  the  geometer  recite  couplets  against 
La  Motte  like  those  for  which  poor  Rousseau  was  exiled. 

A  French  student  who  now  begins  the  study  of  the  law 
buys  for  three  francs  a  copy  of  the  "  Code  Civil,"  a  volume 
about  as  large  as  a  pocket  Testament,  and  as  easy  to  under- 
stand as  the  Ten  Commandments.  Napoleon  may  have  caught 
the  idea  of  reducing  French  law  to  this  simple  form  from 
a  sentence  in  one  of  Voltaire's  letters  of  1739.  \"  What  dis- 
gusted me  with  the  profession  of  advocate,"  he  wrote,  "  was 
the  profusion  of  useless  things  with  which  they  wished  to  load 

1  See  35  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  238,  240 ;  75  same,  517  ;  24*  same,  185;  63  same, 
268 ;  all  contemporary  memoirs ;  Factum,  by  Joseph  Saurin. 


WILD   OATS.  53 

my  brain.      To  the  point  is  my  device."     French  law,  in 
fact,  was  very  much  the  same  as  Enghsh  law  and  American 
law  before  the  era  of  codifying  and  simplification.     The  old 
legal  forms  and  customs,  both  French  and  Englisli,  were  well 
adapted  to  their  purpose  of  making  justice  expensive  and  law- 
yers indispensable.     A  glance  at  an  old  edition  of  Coke  upon 
Lyttleton  will  convey  a  lively  idea  of  the  crabbed  nature  of 
the  pursuit  from  which  this   young  man    instantly  recoiled. 
But  he  had  harder  nuts  than  this  to  crack  ;  at  least,  less  at- 
tractive.    "  An  advocate,"  he  wrote  half  a  century  later,  "  is 
a  man  who,  not  having  money  enough   to  buy  one  of  those 
brilliant  offices    upon    which   the  universe  has  its  eyes  fixed 
(such  as   Counselor  to   the  Salt  Commissioners),    studies  for 
three  years  the  laws  of  Theodosius  and  Justinian  in  order  to 
know  the  practice  of  Paris,  and  who,  being  at  last  matricu- 
lated, has    a  right    to    plead  for  money,  if   he   has  a  strong 
voice."     To  complete  his  disgust,  the  place  in  which  the  law 
school  was  held  was  repulsive,  "a  kind  of  barn,"  says  Duver- 
net.     "  That  country,"  remarks  the  same  chronicler,  "  seemed 
to  him  barbarous  and  the  laws  a  chaos."     He  continued  to  at- 
tend the  classes,  however,  and  may  have  even  been  admitted 
to  practice. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  eighteen ;  he  was  Francois  Arouet ;  he 
was  in  Paris ;  and  he  had  an  occupation  which  it  was  a  pleas- 
ure to  neglect. 

Ahh6  de  Chateauneuf  did  not  live  to  see  his  pupil's  later 
triumphs  at  the  college.  He  died  in  1709'  but  not  before  he 
had  exhibited  the  young  prodigy  to  certain  votaries  of  verse 
and  pleasure  besides  the  incredible  Ninon  ;  among  others  to 
the  Epicureans  of  the  Temple,  so  frequently  mentioned  in  the 
memoirs  of  that  time.  The  Temple  was  what  remained  of  the 
ancient  monastery  of  the  Templars,  —  a  great  square  tower, 
with  a  smaller  tower  at  each  corner,  where,  in  later  times, 
Louis  XVI.  and  his  family  were  confined.  Adjacent  was  the 
palace  of  the  Grand  Prior  of  France,  Philippe  Vendume,  one 
of  the  notorious  voluptuaries  of  his  generation,  the  last  of  the 
VendSmes,  a  ducal  line  descended  from  Henry  IV.  and  one  of 
his  mistresses.  The  entire  mass  of  building  in  the  inclosure 
was  called  the  Temple,  but  the  ancient  towers  were  then  pri- 
vate property,  and  were  let  in  suites  to  various  tenants,  the 
"  Templars  "  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV. 


54  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

If  these  people  liad  had  to  choose  a  Madonna,  a  majority  of 
them  would  have  been  likely  to  cast  their  votes  for  Nmon  de 
Lenclos,  whom  they  had  known  in  her  old  age.     The  Grand 
Prior,  who,  besides  enjoying  the  revenues  of  a  prince,  had  rich 
benefices  to  bestow,   lived  only  for  pleasm-e,  and  had   little 
notion  of  pleasure  that  was  not  sensual :  "  carried  to  bed  every 
night  for  thirty  years  dead  drunk,"  reports  St.  Simon.     Years 
before,  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  Abbd  Chaiilieu,  poet  and 
refined  sensualist,  to  whom  he  had  given  abbey  after  abbey, 
until  his  income  amounted  to  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year, 
for  which  the  abbe  rendered  no  service  whatever,  seldom  going 
near  one  of  his  abbeys,  but  living  always  in  a  sumptuous  abode 
within  the  Temple.     This  personage  was  never  dead  drunk, 
for  he  and  most  of  the  Templars  valued  themselves  upon  not 
lessening  the  sum-total  of  pleasure  by  vulgar  excess.     They 
wrote  verses,  gave  elegant  repasts,  said  witty  things,  culti- 
vated  the  art  of  pleasing,  observed  the  decorums,  and  prac- 
ticed the  vices.     It  is   not  necessary  to  know  whether  Paris 
exao-o-erated  their  immoralities,  since  there  was  at  the  base  of 
their  lives  one  immorality  which  sufficed  to  vitiate  their  whole 
existence :    they  wore  the  garb,  shared  the  revenues,  and  en- 
joyed the  honors  of  a  church  whose  creed  they  despised  and 
whose   ordinances   they   disobeyed.     Besides  the   churchmen, 
there  were   certain   witty    and   dissolute  noblemen   who  fre- 
quented the  society  of  the  Temple  :  the  Marquis  la  Fare,  more 
Bacchanalian  than  Epicurean,  whose  name  is  joined  to  that 
of  Abbe  de  Chaulieu  on  the  title-page  of  a  volume  of  gay  verse, 
still  procurable.     This  good-natured  reprobate  died  of  a  gorge 
of  cod-fish  the  year  after  Frangois  Arouet  left  school.     The 
Duke  de  Sully,  the  Duke  de  Vendome,  the  Prince  de  Conti, 
and  other  persons  of  rank  were  glad  to  escape  the  formalities 
and  observances  of  the  court,  and  join  the  easy  livers  of  the 
Temple. 

Our  law  student  was  early  welcomed  to  their  circle,  and  we 
can  see  from  his  verses  and  letters  of  those  years  that  he  was 
upon  a  footing  of  perfect  familiarity  with  its  members.  Other 
great  houses  and  noted  salons  were  opened  to  him ;  his  school- 
mates bore  him  in  mind;  and  we  soon  see  him,  mere  youth  as 
he  was,  living  the  life  and  taking  the  tone  of  a  young  man  of 
fashion.     He  was  le  hel  esprit  a  la  mode,  caressed  by  ladies. 


WILD  OATS.  55 

and  made  much  of  by  men,  supping  with  princes,  and  making 
impromptu  verses  in  the  salon  of  the  Abbe  de  Chaulieu.  The 
complacent  Duvernet,  himself  an  abbd,  describes  the  Templars 
as  a  society  of  Epicurean  philosophers,  "  all  of  a  severe  prob- 
ity," who  enjoyed  the  charms  of  merry  and  friendly  conver- 
sation at  a  time  when  Paris  was  rent  into  theolosic  factions. 
Every  one  of  them,  he  remarks,  composed  verses,  which  made 
the  student  say,  one  day,  at  the  house  of  the  Prince  de  Conti, 
as  they  were  taking  their  places  at  table,  "  We  are  here  all 
princes  or  all  poets." 

He  abandoned  himself  to  this  gay  and  splendid  life,  drinking 
deep  draughts  of  a  kind  of  pleasure  that  is  peculiarly  captivat- 
ing to  a  young  man  of  his  temperament  and  circumstances.  No 
doubt  he  was  a  wild  lad,  for  a  time ;  for  at  eighteen  it  is  not 
possible  to  be  a  very  philosophic  Epicurean.  There  were  no 
latch-keys  in  those  primitive  times,  and  Maitre  Arouet  was 
not  a  father  who  would  often  sit  up  late  for  a  prodigal,  nor 
willingly  go  to  bed  leaving  him  to  be  let  in  at  an  hour  un- 
known. One  night,  his  patience  being  exhausted,  he  had  the 
keys  brought  to  him,  locked  up  the  house,  and  went  to  bed, 
taking  the  keys  with  him.  The  youth  came  home  late  (that 
is,  at  ten  o'clock)  from  a  verse-making  carouse  with  his  fine 
friends,  and  found  the  front  door  inexorably  shut.  He  had  to 
seek  a  lodging,  and  found  refuge  at  last  in  a  porter's  chair  in 
the  court  of  the  Palace  of  Justice,  where  he  fell  into  that  deep 
sleep  which  late  carousers  know.  In  the  morning,  two  law- 
yers, going  by  to  early  court,  found  him  still  fast  asleep, 
recognized  him,  and  had  him  carried,  chair  and  all,  into  a  caf^  f  ^_ 
near  by,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  woke,  to  find  himself  the 
centre  of  a  group,  merry  at  his  exponse.^  And  of  course  he 
found  his  allowance  of  money  insufficient,  —  the  latch-key  con- 
troversy and  the  money  question  bearing  to  one  another  a  cer- 
tain relation.     Writing  of  this  period  long  after,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  remember  that,  being  one  day  under  the  necessity  of  borrowing 
money  of  a  pawnbroker,  I  found  two  crucifixes  upon  his  table.  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  taken  them  in  pledge.  He  said,  No ;  he  never 
made  a  bargain  except  in  presence  of  a  crucifix.  I  told  him  that,  in 
that  case,  one  was  enough,  and  I  advised  him  to  place  it  between  the 
two  thieves.  He  called  me  impious,  and  declared  he  would  lend  me  no 
1  Vie  Privee  de  Voltaire  et  Madame  du  Chatelet,  par  Madame  Grafiguy,  page  17. 


56  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

money.  I  took  leave  ;  but  he  ran  after  me,  and  said,  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  that  if  I  could  assure  him  that  I  had  no  ill  intentions  in 
sj^eaking  to  him  in  that  way  he  might  be  able,  with  a  good  conscience, 
to  accommodate  me.  I  told  him  that  I  had  only  very  good  inten- 
tions. Then  he  concluded  to  lend  me  some  money  on  my  pledges, 
\^  at  ten  per  cent.,  deducting  the  interest  in  advance^  and  at  the  end  of 

six  months  he  disaj^peared  with  my  pledges,  which  were  worth  four  or 
five  times  the  sura  he  had  lent  me.  The  countenance  of  this  fine 
fellow,  his  tone,  all  his  ways,  were  so  comic  that  I  have  often  made 
my  companions  laugh  by  imitating  them."^ 

There  is  an  anecdote,  also,  of  a  great  lady  giving  him  a  hun- 
dred louis  for  correcting  her  verses,  and  of  the  use  he  made 
of  the  money,  which  may  have  some  basis  of  truth.  Going 
along  the  street,  overjoyed  to  find  himself  the  possessor  of  so 
large  a  sum,  he  came  to  where  an  auctioneer  was  selling  a  car- 
riage, a  pair  of  horses,  and  the  liveries  of  a  coachman  and  foot- 
man. He  bid  a  hundred  louis  for  the  lot,  and  it  was  knocked 
down  to  him.  All  day  he  drove  about  Paris,  giving  his  friends 
rides,  supped  gayly  in  the  city,  and  continued  to  ride  till  late 
in  the  evening,  when,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do  with  them, 
he  crowded  the  horses  into  his  father's  stable,  already  full. 
The  thundering  noise  of  this  operation  woke  the  old  man,  who, 
on  learning  its  cause,  turned  young  scapegrace  out-of-doors, 
and,  the  next  day,  had  the  carriage  and  horses  sold  for  half 
price. 

-  Voltaire  has  idealized  all  this  in  his  comedy  of  "  Le  D^posi- 
taire,"  in  which  two  brothers  figure,  resembling  in  some  degree 
himself  and  his  brother  Armand  :  one  a  bigot  and  devotee  ;  the 
other  a  young  fellow  of  society,  agreeable  and  fond  of  pleas- 
ure. Ninon  is  the  leading  female  character,  a  woman  of  the 
world  and  an  "  estimable  man,"  in  contrast  with  whom  there 
is  a  cheating  Tartuffe  of  a  church-warden.  The  elder  brother 
-;  *  is  described  as  "  a  serious  fool,"  who  had  formed  the  "extrava- 

gant design  of  being  a  perfect  man ;  "  sad  and  dismal,  regard- 
less of  appearances,  bent  over  an  old  Greek  book,  his  face  hid- 
den in  a  greasy  cap,  ink  on  his  fingers,  and  his  body  half  buried 
in  a  heap  of  papers.  The  younger,  on  the  contrary,  lives  to 
please  and  be  pleased  ;  a  little  wild,  perhaps,  but  entirely  ami- 
able and  honorable,  —  a  universal  favorite.     "  I  love  people  of 

1  11  (Euvres  de  Voltaire,  394. 


WILD   OATS.  67 

'^orth,"  says  Ninon,  "  but  bigots  I  hate  ;  and  I  fear  rogues 
who  govern  fools."  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  which  our 
law  student  may  often  have  said  to  his  severe  and  credulous 
brother  :  "  You  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  be  unhappy. 
What  would  you  say  to  a  fool  who  should  tear  and  tread 
down  the  flowers  of  his  garden,  lest  he  should  enjoy  their  de- 
lightful fragrance  ?  Oh,  the  pleasant  glory  to  spoil  your  wine 
for  fear  of  drinking  too  much  !  " 

But  the  elder  is  not  silent.  "  Go  !  "  he  cries.  "  Plunge  neck- 
deep  into  the  brilliant  filth  of  that  frenzied  world,  whose  glit- 
ter enchants  you.  Turn  into  amusing  ridicule  virtuous  men. 
Swim  in  pleasures,  —  in  those  shameful  pleasures  whose  sweet- 
ness produces  so  much  bitterness."  And  then  he  soliloquizes  : 
"  What  a  sweet  and  noble  pleasure  to  hate  pleasure ;  to  be 
able  to  say  to  one's  self,  '  I  am  without  desires,  master  of  my- 
self, just,  serene,  wise,  my  soul  a  rock  in  the  midst  of  the 
storm  !  "  He  speaks  also  of  his  "  fool  of  a  brother,"  who,  with- 
out taking  the  least  trouble,  delights  all  the  world;  a  plain 
proof  that  the  world  is  no  better  than  he,  and  only  fit  to  be 
renounced. 

All  this,  doubtless,  Frangois  and  Armand  repeated  many 
times,  wliile  their  irascible  father  regarded  them  as  equally  per-  y, 

verse  and  out  of  the  way.  "  I  have  a  pair  of  fools  for  sons,"- 
said  he,  —  "one  in  verse,  and  the  other  in  prose."  His  sou 
Francois  seldom  said  a  neater  thing.  *^ 

The  father  was,  indeed,  distressed  and  alarmed  to  see  his 
younger  son  neglecting  his  law  studies,  associating  with  princes 
and  philosophers,  and  playing  pranks  highly  unbecoming  a 
youth  who  had  his  own  way  to  make  in  the  world.  He  bore 
it  with  what  little  patience  he  had  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and 
then  felt  that  the  time  was  come  to  get  the  young  man  out  of 
seductive  Paris,  beyond  the  reach  of  his  friends  of  the  Temple. 
He  sent  him  first  to  the  ancient  Norman  city  of  Caen,  a  hun- 
dred and  forty  miles  from  Paris,  within  sight  of  the  English 
Channel,  —  that  quaint  and  venerable  Caen,  the  residence  and 
tomb  of  William  the  Conqueror.  But  Caen  was  a  polite  city 
of  several  thousand  inhabitants,  the  seat  of  a  university,  with 
an  ancient  and  large  library,  and  a  considerable  circle  of  people 
interested  in  literature  and  learning.  All  doors  at  Caen  opened 
to  receive  this  hel  esprit  d  la  mode  de  Paris.     Madame  d'Oa- 


58  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

Seville,  whose  poems  still  rest  in  manuscript  in  the  Caen  Library, 
gave  him  welcome,  dazzled  by  the  brilliancy  of  his  conversa- 
tion and  the  flash  of  his  impromptus;  until,  learning  that  he 
wrote  libertine  verses  also,  she  invited  him  no  more.  But  there 
was  a  Father  Couvrigny,  of  the  Jesuit  college  there,  who, 
having  no  scruples  of  the  kind,  associated  with  him  constantly, 
and  foretold  for  him  a  splendid  future.  And  still  his  father 
urged  him  to  return  and  settle  to  a  career,  offering  to  buy  for 
him,  in  due  time,  the  high  post  of  counselor  to  the  parliament 
of  Paris.  "  Tell  my  father,"  said  he  to  the  bearer  of  this  offer, 
"  that  I  do  not  desire  any  place  which  can  be  bought.  I  shall 
know  how  to  make  one  for  myself  that  will  cost  nothing."  J 
And,  indeed,  in  the  midst  of  his  reckless  gayety,  he  did  not 
lose  sight  of  his  object.  He  exerted  his  better  powers ;  he 
wrote  serious  verse ;  he  was  already  revolving  subjects  and 
schemes  which  he  was  to  treat  erelong  with  an  effect  that  jus- 
tified his  confident  reply  to  his  father's  generous  offer. 

Caen  did  nothing  to  wean  him  from  his  choice,  and  he  re- 
turned to  Paris,  after  an  absence  of  some  months,  to  resume 
his  former  way  of  life. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HEAD  OVER  EARS  IN  LOVE. 

After  more  years  of  disastrous  and  humiliating  war  than 
Frangois-Marie  Arouet  could  remember,  France,  in  the  spring 
of  1713,  enjoyed  peace  again.  The  Treaty  of  Utrecht  be- 
tween England,  Holland,  and  France,  signed  in  April,  was  to 
France  like  air  to  a  man  suffocating,  like  sudden  deliverance 
to  a  hopeless  prisoner.  There  is  no  news  so  exhilarating  as 
the  news  of  peace  after  a  long  war.  On  the  lOtli  of  June 
the  King  of  France,  to  the  profound  joy  of  his  subjects,  ai> 
pointed  an  ambassador  to  reside  at  the  capital  of  the  Nether- 
lands, and  the  person  chosen  was  the  Marquis  de  Chateauneuf, 
brother  to  the  late  abb^,  the  boy  poet's  guide,  philosopher,  and 
fiiend.  The  old  diplomatist  was  good  enough  to  appoint  the 
youth  one  of  his  pages,  or,  as  we  should  term  it,  attaches  un- 
paid ;  and  so,  amid  the  general  joy  of  that  summer,  our  stu- 
dent of  law  had  the  additional  pleasure  of  a  journey  to  the 
Hague  in  the  train  of  an  ambassador.  Virtue  itself  is  not  al- 
ways so  agreeably  rewarded. 

The  marquis  and  his  retinue  reached  the  Hague  September 
28,  1718,  though  his  formal  reception  occurred  later.  "  It  is 
a  pleasant  jest,"  wrote  the  page,  "  to  make  a  solemn  entry 
into  a  city  where  you  have  been  living  for  several  weeks." 

This  appointment  in  the  diplomatic  line  was  not,  perhaps, 
the  mere  expedient  of  an  exasperated  father  to  get  a  trouble- 
some son  out  of  Paris.  Voltaire  all  his  life  had  a  certain 
hankering  to  be  employed  in  diplomacy.  Pierre  de  Ronsard, 
French  poet  of  the  sixteenth  century,  had  begun  his  truly  fine 
career  as  page  to  an  ambassador,  a  post  from  which  he  ad- 
vanced to  the  most  confidential  trusts  a  subject  could  fulfill. 
Maitre  Arouet  might  well  have  accepted  this  proceeding  as 
a  happy  compromise  with  his  unmanageable  son,  and  might 
have   indulged   a   rational    expectation   of   his   advancement. 


60  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

With  a  quarter  of  his  talents  and  ten  times  his  prudence,  he 
might  have  come  to  be  ambassador  to  a  small  kingdom  at 
sixty-five. 

His  diplomatic  career  was  short,  and  very  much  in  the  style 
of  an  ambassador's  page  in  an  Italian  comedy.  Among  the 
great  number  of  French  people  then  living  in  Holland,  as  in 
all  Protestant  countries  and  colonies,  refugees  from  the  sav- 
age intolerance  of  Louis  XIV. 's  priests,  there  was  a  Madame 
Dunoyer,  Protestant  by  birth,  the  wife  of  a  French  Catholic 
gentleman  of  repute,  from  whom  she  was  separated.  Exiled 
by  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  she  had  lived  in 
Switzerland,  in  London,  in  Holland,  the  precarious,  demoraliz- 
ing life  of  a  woman  without  any  of  the  usual  means  of  sup- 
port. She  had  written  various  kinds  of  trash,  and  in  1704 
published  at  Cologne  a  work  in  seven  volumes',  entitled  "  Let- 
ters Historical  and  Gallant,"  full  of  the  scandal  and  gossip  by 
which  the  dullest  and  meanest  of  our  kind  can  make  a  certain 
sensation  in  the  world.  The  letters  were  fictitious,  supposed 
to  be  the  correspondence  between  a  woman  of  fashion  in  Paris 
and  a  lady  living  in  the  country.  These  volumes  had  made 
Madame  Dunoyer  an  object  of  interest  to  a  portion  of  the 
public,  and  an  object  of  dread  to  another  portion.  She  was 
feared,  courted,  and  despised,  as  the  editor  of  a  scurrilous 
journal  is  sometimes  feared,  courted,  and  despised ;  for  what 
she  had  done  once  she  could  do  again. 

A  moth  does  not  fly  to  a  candle  by  a  more  inevitable  im- 
pulse than  such  a  page  as  Arouet  at  nineteen  gets  within 
range  of  such  a  woman,  living  in  such  a  place.  She  had  two 
daughters :  the  elder  married  and  living  in  Paris ;  the  younger, 
Olirape,  not  pretty,  as  he  used  to  say  sixty  years  after,  but 
extremely  amiable  and  winning.  He  fell  in  love  with  her, 
—  he  nineteen  and  without  a  profession,  she  twenty-one  and 
^^'  without  a  sou.  It  was  an  honest  and  virtUjQUS  love  on  his 
part,  creditable  to  him  as  a  human  being,  nor  quite  as  rash 
and  reckless  as  it  seemed.  It  was  the  best  love  he  ever  ex- 
perienced, and,  in  other  circumstances,  might  have  had  its 
natural  issue,  to  the  lasting  good  of  both.  His  scheme  was  to 
get  her  to  return  to  France,  where  her  father  still  lived,  where 
she  had  influential  connections,  and  where  no  one  was  more 
sure  of  a  welcome  than  a  stray  lamb  returning  to  the  fold  of 


HEAD  OVER  EARS  IN  LOVE.  61 

Louis  XIV.'s  church.  "  The  king  wishes  every  one  in  France 
to  be  of  his  religion,"  truly  said  a  blunt  soldier  to  the  Protest- 
ants whom  he  was  sent  to  convert,  at  the  head  of  a  body  of 
cavalry.  The  mother,  according  to  this  sage  lover,  was  a  . 
dragon,  who  treated  her  daughter  harshly,  and  did  not  deserve 
to  possess  such  an  adorable  creature.  In  other  words,  Madame 
Dunoyer,  who  had  made  a  promising  match  for  one  daughter, 
was  intent  on  getting  for  "  Pimpette  "  a  husband  w^ho  would 
be  both  able  and  willing  to  establish  comfortably  a  mother-in- 
law.  A  page  of  nineteen,  a  notary's  son,  without  fortune, 
bore  no  resemblance  whatever  to  that  son-in-law  of  her  dreams 
who  was  to  end  her  long  and  bitter  struggle  with  adverse  fort- 
une. 

All  went  prosperously  with  his  love  for  a  few  weeks,  the 
young  lady  returning  his  affection,  and  the  mother  not  remark- 
hig  it.  October  and  November  passed,  and  still  they  were 
happy.  But  one  dreadful  evening,  about  the  first  of  Decem- 
ber, when  the  lover  returned  late  to  the  embassy,  the  ambas- 
sador confi-onted  him,  told  him  all  was  discovered,  and  he 
must  start  for  home  the  next  day.  The  Marquis  de  Chateau- 
neuf,  with  the  timidity  natural  to  a  public  man  at  the  critical 
hour  of  a  ticklish  mission,  dared  not  make  an  enemy  of  this 
woman  of  the  audacious  pen,  and  feared  she  might  affront  his 
page  in  some  way  which  he  could  not  avoid  officially  noticing. 
The  lover  begged  for  mercy,  but  all  he  could  get  was  a  single 
day's  grace,  with  the  condition  annexed  of  not  leaving  the  ^ 
embassy  until  the  moment  of  his  final  departure.  He  must 
go  in  forty-eight  hours,  and  not  see  his  Pimpette  again. 

His  valet  was  a  cunning  Norman  named  Lef(5vre,  a  true 
valet  of  comedy,  whom  he  could  implicitly  trust,  and  by  him 
he  sent  a  long  letter  to  Pimpette,  relating  the  disaster,  and 
unfolding  his  plans  for  their  speedy  reunion.  Already  she  had 
/  agreed  to  rejoin  her  father,  and  this  explosion,  as  he  urged, 
should  only  hasten  her  flight  from  a  mother  unworthy  of  her. 

"  Send  me  three  letters,"  he  wrote,  "  one  for  your  father,  one 
for  your  uncle,  and  one  for  your  sister  ;  that  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary;  but  I  shall  only  deliver  them  when  circumstances  favor,  es- 
pecially the  one  for  your  sister.  Let  the  shoemaker  be  the  bearer 
of  those  letters ;  promise  him  a  reward  ;  and  let  him  come  with  a  " 
last  in  his  hand,  as  if    to  mend  my  shoes.     Add  to  those  letters  a 


62  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

note  for  me  ;  let  me  have  that  comfort  on  setting  out ;  and,  ahove 
all,  in  the  name  of  the  love  I  bear  you,  my  dear,  send  me  your 
portrait;  use  all  your  efforts  to  get  it  from  your  mother;  it  had 
better  be  in  my  hands  than  in  hers,  for  it  is  already  in  my  heart. 
The  servant  I  send  you  is  wholly  devoted  to  me,  and  if  you  wish 
to  pass  him  off  to  your  mother  as  a  snuff-box  maker,  he  is  a  Nor- 
man and  will  play  the  part  well.  ...  I  shall  do  all  that  is  possi- 
ble to  see  you  to-morrow  before  leaving  Holland  ;  but,  as  I  cannot 
assure  you  of  it,  I  bid  you  good-by,  my  dear  heart,  for  the  last 
time,  and  I  do  it  swearing  to  you  all  the  tender  love  which  you 
merit.  Yes,  my  dear  Pimpette,  I  shall  love  you  always.  Lovers 
the  least  faithful  say  the  same ;  but  their  love  is  not  founded,  as 
mine  is,  upon  perfect  esteem.  [I  love  your  goodness  as  much  as  I 
love  your  person,  and  I  only  ask  of  Heaven  the  privilege  of  im- 
bibing from  you  the  noble  sentiments  you  possess^  .  .  .  Adieu,  once 
more,  my  dear  mistress  ;  think  a  little  of  your  unhappy  lover,  but 
not  so  as  to  dash  your  spirits.  Keep  your  health  if  you  wish  to 
preserve  mine.  Above  all,  have  a  great  deal  of  discretion  ;  burn 
my  letter  and  all  that  you  get  from  me  ;  it  were  better  to  be  less 
generous  to  me,  and  take  better  care  of  yourself.  Let  us  take 
comfort  from  the  hope  of  seeing  one  another  very  soon,  and  let  us 
love  one  another  as  long  as  we  live.  Perhaps  I  shall  even  come 
back  here  in  quest  of  you,  and,  if  so,  I  shall  be  the  happiest  of 
men.  But,  after  all,  provided  you  get  to  Paris,  I  shall  be  only 
too  well  satisfied ;  for,  wishing  only  your  welfare,  I  would  willingly 
secure  it  at  the  expense  of  my  own,  and  should  feel  myself  richly 
recompensed  in  cherishing  the  sweet  assurance  that  I  had  contrib- 
uted to  restore  you  to  happiness." 

So  far,  so  well.  Tliis  was  tlie  letter  of  an  honest  lover,  and 
the  scheme  seemed  feasible.  But  when  he  summoned  Le- 
fdvre  to  convey  the  epistle  to  the  young  lady,  the  valet  told 
him  he  had  received  orders  to  deliver  to  the  ambassador  any 
letters  his  master  might  charge  him  with.  Away  with  pru- 
dence!  He  would  see  his  mistress,  despite  the  vigilance  of 
his  chief,  one  of  the  most  experienced  diplomatists  in  Eu- 
rope. Favored  by  an  unavoidable  delay  in  setting  out,  he 
engaged  in  a  series  of  manoeuvres,  precisely  such  as  we  laugh 
at  at  the  theatre,  when  an  imaginary  Figaro  exerts  his  tal- 
ents to  help  or  baffle  a  fictitious  Count.  He  wrote  a  letter 
•  to  Pimpette,  which  he  meant  the  marquis  to  read,  and  told 
his  valet  to  deliver  it  to  him,  as  ordered.     He  corresponded 


HEAD  OVER  EARS  IN  LOVE.  63 

with  her  continually,  and  had  several  interviews  with  her. 
One  night,  at  the  rising  of  the  moon,  he  left  the  embassy 
in  disguise,  placed  a  carriage  near  the  adored  one's  abode, 
made  the  usual  comedy  signal  under  her  window,  received 
her  to  his  arms,  and  away  they  rode,  five  miles  into  the 
country  to  the  sea-side  village  of  Scheveningen  ;  and  there, 
with  the  ink  and  paper  which  he  had  provided,  she  wrote 
the  three  letters  that  he  desired  for  use  in  Paris.  This  cer- 
tainly'- was  the  entertainment  to  which  he  invited  her,  and  which 
appears  to  have  been  carried  out. 

She  was  as  mad  as  he  ;  or  at  least  she  fooled  him  to  the 
top  of  his  bent.  The  shoemaker's  family,  who  lived  near  her 
abode,  were  in  their  interests  ;  the  lovers  sometimes  met  at 
their  house,  and  when  he  visited  Pimpette  in  the  evening,  it 
it  was  the  wife  of  the  shoemaker  who  mounted  guard  and 
signalized  the  approach  of  an  enemy.  One  evening,  it  ap- 
pears, the  woman  was  mistaken,  and  gave  a  false  alarm,  which 
caused  the  page  to  take  flight  with  needless  precipitation.  The 
woman  thought  she  saw  approaching  the  secretary  of  legation, 
but  it  was  no  such  matter.  The  only  letter  of  the  young 
lady  which  has  been  preserved  is  one  which  explains  this  error 
of  judgment  on  the  part  of  the  sentinel,  and  urges  him  to  come 
again.  This  eager  and  ill-spelt  letter  he  appears  to  have  car- 
ried about  his  person  for  years  after,  and  it  bears  a  formal 
attestation,  still  legible,  that  it  was  found  upon  him  when  he 
arrived  at  the  Bastille,  in  1717. 

*'  Do  all  you  can,"  she  concluded,  "  that  I  may  see  you  this  even- 
ing. You  will  only  have  to  go  down  into  the  shoemaker's  kitchen, 
and  I  answer  for  it  that  you  have  nothing  to  fear,  for  my  mother 
believes  you  half-way  to  Paris.  So,  if  you  please,  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  this  evening.  And  if  that  cannot  be,  let  me 
attend  the  mass  at  the  embassy  ;  I  will  ask  M.  de  la  Bruyere  [secre- 
tary of  legation]  to  show  me  the  chapel.  To  women  curiosity  is 
permitted.  And  then,  without  any  disguise,  I  shall  ask  him  if  they 
have  received  any  news  from  you  yet,  and  when  you  started.  Do 
not  refuse  me  this  favor,  my  dear  Arouet ;  I  ask  it  of  you  in  the 
name  of  the  tenderest  of  all  things, —  the  love  I  bear  you.  Adieu, 
my  amiable  child.  I  adore  you,  and  I  swear  that  my  love  will  last  as 
long  as  my  life."  ^ 

1  Jeunesse  de  Voltaire,  page  67. 


64  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

This  note  was  signed  "  Dunoyer,"  and  had  a  postscript, 
begging  him,  if  they  failed  to  meet  that  evening,  to  send  her 
some  dear  news  of  himself. 

An  experienced  ambassador  had  an  eye  upon  this  uncon- 
trollable page  of  his,  and  was  not  long  ignorant  of  any  of 
his  escapades.  He  gave  the  young  man  formal  orders,  in  the 
king's  name,  not  to  leave  the  embassy ;  which  only  caused 
tlie  love-stricken  youth  to  declare  to  Pimpette  that  he  would 
visit  her,  though  it  should  bring  his  head  to  the  block. 
And  he  did  see  her  again  and  again.  Closely  watched  by 
day,  he  would  drop  from  a  window  at  midnight,  and  go  to 
her  house,  near  which  she  would  join  him,  if  she  could  man- 
age to  steal  unperceived  from  her  mother's  bed.  The  ambas- 
sador came  to  the  point  with  him  at  last,  and  gave  him  his 
choice, —  either  to  leave  Holland  instantly,  or  wait  a  week  for 
the  next  official  opportunity,  and,  in  the  mean  time,  engage 
not  to  go  out  of  the  hotel. 

The  distracted  lover  chose  to  remain  a  prisoner.  Then  he 
dispatched  Lef^vre  with  his  maddest  note  to  Pimpette,  ex- 
plaining the  new  situation,  and  begging  her  to  come  to  him, 
since  he  could  not  go  to  her.  "  Send  Lisbette  about  three," 
he  wrote  ;  "  I  will  give  her  a  parcel  for  you  containing  a  suit 
of  man's  clothes.  You  can  put  them  on  in  her  room ;  and  if 
you  have  regard  enough  for  a  poor  prisoner  who  adores  you, 
you  will  take  the  trouble  to  come  to  the  embassy  about  dusk. 
To  what  a  cruel  extremity  are  we  reduced,  my  dear !  Is  it 
your  part  to  come  to  -me?  But  it  is  our  only  way  of  seeing 
one  another.  You  love  me,  and  so  I  hope  to  see  you  this  day 
in  my  rooms." 

It  was  his  own  clothes  that  he  sent ;  but,  fearing  they  might 
be  recognized,  he  hired  a  cloak  and  doublet,  with  which  she  was 
to  conceal  them.  Pimpette  actually  assumed  the  disguise  and 
visited  him,  to  his  great  content,  but  not  without  being  sus- 
pected. The  ambassador  summoned  Lefdvre  to  his  presence, 
and  questioned  him  closely;  but  the  cunning  Norman  con- 
trived, as  he  thought,  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  chief, 
and  even  found  out  that  a  trap  was  to  be  set  to  catch  Pim- 
pette if  she  should  repeat  the  visit.  The  page  at  once  sent  his 
valet  to  bring  back  his  clothes,  and  that  night  he  got  out  of 
his  window  once  more,  and  met  her  at  their  usual  rendezvous. 


HEAD  OVEK  EARS  IN  LOVE.  65 

The  old  diplomatist  discovered  this  also,  and  wrote  in  a  rage 
to  Maitre  Arouet,  giving  him  such  an  account  of  his  son's 
conduct  as  an  angry  ambassador  might,  who  saw  the  success 
of  his  mission  hazarded  by  a  comedy  of  love  between  a  rash 
boy  of  nineteen  and  an  experienced  virgin  of  twenty-one. 

December  18th,  the  lover  left  the  Hague,  and  began  his 
journey  to  Paris,  sending  her  long  letters  to  the  last  day  of  his 
stay,  and  continuing  to  write  from  the  cabin  of  the  yacht  that 
bore  him  away  from  the  enchanted  shore.  A  very  long  and 
tumultuous  epistle,  indeed,  was  the  one  which  he  sent  back  to 
her  from  the  frontier,  swearing  eternal  constancy  and  unfolding 
his  plan  for  her  deliverance.  Her  mother,  as  it  appears,  had 
assailed  the  incomparable  Pimpette  with  something  more  ter- 
rible than  words,  and  he  entreats  her  to  burn  his  letters,  lest 
her  mother  should  find  them  and  again  "  maltreat  "  her.  "  Do 
not  expose  yourself  to  the  fury  of  your  mother  :  you  know 
what  she  is  capable  of  —  alas  !  you  have  experienced  it  but  too 
well.  Dissemble  with  her ;  it  is  your  only  chance.  Tell  her 
(which  I  hope  you  never  will  do)  that  you  have  foi'gotten  me  ; 
tell  her  that  you  hate  me ;  and  then  love  me  all  the  more  for 
it." 

He  told  her  what  he  meant  to  do  as  soon  as  he  should  reach 
Paris.  Already  he  had  taken  measures  ;  he  had  written  a 
letter  to  the  friend  and  patron  of  his  college  days.  Father 
Tournemine,  Jesuit,  and  asked  his  aid  in  bringing  back  a 
stray  lamb  to  the  fold.  "  The  first  thing  I  shall  do,  on  my 
arrival  at  Paris,  will  be  to  enlist  Father  Tournemine  on  your 
behalf.  Next,  I  shall  deliver  your  letters.  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  explain  to  my  father  the  cause  of  my  return,  and  I  flatter 
myself  that  he  will  not  be  entirely  displeased  with  me,  pro- 
vided they  have  not  prejudiced  him  against  us  beforehand. 
But  even  if  I  should  have  to  face  his  anger,  I  shall  always 
consider  myself  too  happy,  when  I  think  that  you  are  the 
most  lovely  being  in  the  world,  and  that  you  love  me.  In  my 
short  life  I  have  passed  no  moments  so  sweet  as  those  in 
which  you  have  sworn  to  me  that  you  returned  my  tender 
love." 

He  was  a  week  in  performing  the  journey  from  the  Hague 
to  Paris,  —  from  eight  A.  M.  on  Monday,  December  18th,  to 
the  evening  of   Sunday,  the  24th ;  the  distance  being  about 

VOL.  I.  5      . 


66  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

three  hundred  miles.  Only  couriers,  diplomatists,  and  lovers 
averaged  forty  miles  a  day  in  1713.  It  was  Christmas  Eve 
when  he  arrived,  and  he  went  promply  to  Father  Tournemine 
at  his  old  quarters  in  the  College  Louis-le-Grand.  Joyful 
tidings  greeted  him.  Tournemine  had  received,  approved, 
and  answered  his  letter;  he  had  communicated  with  the 
Bishop  of  Evreux,  cousin  of  Pimpette ;  he  was  zealous  in  the 
cause  of  the  stray  lamb.  The  lover,  finding  the  priest  so  apt, 
intrusted  him  with  the  three  letters  that  Pimpette  had  written 
to  her  relations  in  Paris ;  and  he  agreed  to  use  all  his  influ- 
ence to  induce  her  father  to  receive  her.  This  was,  indeed,  a 
most  hopeful  beginning. 

f  But  he  had  a  father  according  to  the  flesh,  who  might  not 
find  the  return  of  stray  lambs  of  twenty-one  so  interesting. 
The  young  diplomatist  deemed  it  best  to  reconnoitre  the 
ground  a  little  before  coming  within  range  of  an  irascible 
parent ;  and  he  soon  discovered  that  he  had  better  not  think 
of  joining  the  family  at  their  Christmas  dinner  that  year. 
The  ambassador  had  not  only  written  to  his  father  a  "  bloody 
letter,"  giving  a  full  account  of  his  proceedings  in  Holland, 
but  had  sent  also  the  infuriate  letters  of  Madame  Dunoyer  to 
himself,  in  which  those  proceedings  were  related  with  an  en- 
raged mother's  emphasis  and  fluency. 

:-i>The  notary's  patience  gave  way ;  he  had  borne  from  this 

young  man  all  that  he  could.  He  formally  disinherited  him. 
He  went  to  the  minister  and  procured  a  lettre  de  cachet,  with 
which  to  get  him  arrested  and  confined ;  and  when  the  friends 
of  the  family,  at  the  young  man's  request,  remonstrated  with 
him,  all  that  they  could  obtain  was  a  change  of  sentence  from 
imprisonment  to  exile  beyond  the  seas,  in  the  French  West 
Indies.  Fran9ois  might  well  write  to  his  adored  one,  "I  dare 
not  show  myself." 

His  consolation  was  to  write  long  letters,  telling  her,  over 
and  over  again,  that  his  heart  was  wholly  and  unalterably  hers, 
and  that  nothing  was  of  any  consequence  to  him  so  long  as 
she  loved  him.  Fathers  might  do  their  worst;  he  was  un 
shaken  ;  but  if  she  held  back,  if  she  determined  to  remain  in 
Holland,  if  she  abandoned  him,  he  assured  her  that  the  mo- 
ment he  heard  the  news  he  would  kill  himself.  "Never  love 
equaled  mine,"  he  wrote  ;  "for  never  was  there  a  person  bet- 


HEAD   OVER  EARS   IN  LOVE.  67 

ter  worthy  of  love  than  you.  .  .  .  Sorrow,  fear,  love,  agitate 
me  violently;  but  I  always  return  to  bear  myself  the  secret 
testimony  that  I  have  done  nothing  unbecoming  an  honest 
man ;  and  that  enables  me  to  support  my  miseries.  .  .  . 
My  dear  Pimpette,  my  lovely  mistress,  my  dear  heart,  write 
to  me  very  soon  ;  nay,  at  once.  As  soon  as  I  receive  your  let- 
ter I  shall  know  my  fate.  What  will  become  of  me  I  know 
not.  I  am  in  frightful  uncertainty  about  everything;  I  only 
know  that  I  love  you.  Ah,  when  shall  I  embrace  you,  my 
dear  heart  ?  " 

The  sage  maiden,  versed  in  love,  who  had  drawn  on  this 
susceptible  page  to  such  a  point,  was  naturally  the  first  to  re- 
cover her  self-possession.  She  still  wrote  kindly  to  him,  but, 
gave  him  good  advice,  telling  him  he  must  make  it  up  wi_th , 
his  father  at  any  sacrifice,  even  if  he  had  to  take  seriously  to 
the  study  of  the  law.  The  young  man  obeyed  her,  and  wrote 
to  his  father  from  his  hiding-place  the  most  submissive  letters 
every  day,  in  one  of  which  he  said,  "  I  consent,  O  father,  to  go 
to  America,  and  even  to  live  there  on  bread  and  water,  if  only, 
before  I  go,  you  will  let  me  embrace  your  knees."  Fathers 
generally  relent  in  such  cases ;  but  Maitre  Arouet  exacted  a 
hard  condition,  that  must  have  seemed  most  reasonable  and 
generous  to  all  except  this  unfledged  Voltaire :  he  must  set- 
tle to  his  work  of  preparing  to  practice  law,  and,  to  that  end, 
reside  with  a  solicitor,  attend  his  office  regularly,  and  apply 
himself  to  the  business  of  drawing  and  copying  documents. 
He  did  not  shrink  from  giving  his  Pimpette  even  this  proof  of 
his  affection.  January  20,  1714,  he  had  the  melanclioly  pleas- 
ure of  informing  her  that  he  had  obeyed  her  command,  and 
had  already  been  a  week  at  work  in  the  oflice  of  a  solicitor, 
"  learning  the  trade  of  pettifogger,  to  which  my  father  des- 
tines me,  and  hoping  in  that  way  to  regain  his  good-will." 

Meanwhile,  he  pushed  on  his  scheme  for  the  recovery  of  the 
stray  lamb,  and  with  such  effect  that  Father  Tellier,  the 
king'^  confessor,  was  interested  in  it,  and  urged  the  Marquis 
de  Chateauneuf  to  lend  his  aid.  But  that  accomplished  di- 
plomatist knew  why  and  for  whom  the  lamb  was  wanted  in 
France.  The  lover  had  forborne  to  mention  to  Father  Tour- 
nemine  that  he  had  ever  so  much  as  seen  Mademoiselle  Olimpe 
Dunoyer,  and  probably  the  ambassador  supplied  this  omission. 


68  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

,  The  young  lady  wrote  with  less  frequency,  said  less  and  less 
about  love,  and  lent  a  willing  ear  to  the  addresses  of  others. 
L     T  A  year  or  two  later  her  mother,  after  desperate  exertions,  saw 

^^  the  fascinating  Olimpe  a  countess,  —  Madame  la  Comtesse  de 
^  Winterfield.  The  young  lover  consoled  himself  as  best  he 
could,  and,  years  after,  when  he  had  become  a  celebrated  per- 
son, he  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  fourteen  of  his  letters  to 
Pimpette  printed  as  an  appendix  to  a  new  edition  of  her  moth- 
er's "  Lettres  Historiques  et  Gallantes."  But  to  the  end  of 
his  life  he  preserved  a  tender  recollection  of  the  woman  he 
had  passionately  loved  at  this  spring-time  of  his  life,  and  found 
i  opportunities  of  testifying  his  good- will  toward  her. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

SOLICITOR'S  CLERK. 

At  present,  then,  the  bird  is  caged.  Love  has  done  for 
him  what  authority  had  failed  to  do,  and  we  see  him,  in  Jan- 
uary, 1714,  junior  clerk  in  the  office  of  Maitre  Alain,  a  Paris 
solicitor  in  extensive  practice,  who  had  at  least  two  clerks  be- 
sides this  new  acquisitionjl  He  had  to  board  in  the  house  of 
the  solicitor,  over  which  Madame  Alain  presided,  a  lady  who 
scarcely  knew  there  was  such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  poetiy. 
One  of  his  fellow-clerks  was  Thieriot,  a  gay  lad  like  himself, 
fond  of  verses,  of  the  drama,  of  pleasure  generally,  learned 
in  actors  and  actresses.  These  two  young  men  were  illustra- 
tions of  the  Goethean  maxim,  not  then  promulgated :  In  faults 
men  are  much  alike  ;  in  good  qualities  they  differ.  This  Thi- 
eriot, his  intimate  friend  for  sixty  years,  was  an  Arouet  in 
everything  but  genius  and  constancy  ;  an  Arouet  in  everything 
except  that  energy  of  soul  which  enables  some  men  to  rise  su- 
perior to  an  imperfect  education  and  misleading  companions, 
and  rescue  a  portion  of  themselves  and  a  part  of  their  lives 
for  something  nobler  than  pleasure.  Thieriot  became  exces- 
sively fond  of  his  new  comrade,  and  trumpeted  him  with  such 
ardor  and  frequency  that  he  was  long  known  in  Paris,  King 
Frederic  tells  us,^  as  Voltaire's  hawker.  Another  clerk  of 
Maitre  Alain  was  one  Bainast,  who  seems  also  to  have  been  a 
companionable  person,  with  a  taste  for  literature. 

It  needs  but  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the  manners  of  the 
time  to  know  that  our  young  poet's  life  with  the  solicitor  was 
a  form  of  penal  servitude,  including  hard  work,  unsavory  fare, 
homely  lodgings,  assiduous  deference  to  Maitre  and  Madame 
Alain,  with  but  occasional  surreptitious  glimpses  of  that  brill- 
iant world  of  which,  till  lately,  he  had  been  a  shining  atom. 

1  Correspondence  of  Frederic  II.,  of  Prussia,  Letter  to  D'Alenibert,  October 
27,  1772. 


"^ 


70  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

He  could  have  borne  it  all,  if  Olimpe  had  been  h 
him,  for  he  was  constancy's  own  self ;  he  could  nt 
constant.     He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  his 
Pimpette  was  bestowing  suiiles  upon  another,  and 
his  situation  in  the   solicitor's  office  intolerable.     E 
had  cut  down  his  allowance  of  money,  and  he  beca 
quent  borrower,  putting  his  name  to  bills  which  he  fo 
cult  to  meet.     For  some  years  of  this  part  of  his  liie  ne  was 
in  straits  for  money,  and  thus  acquired  a  sense  of  its  value 
which  poets  do  not  always  possess.     A  note  promising  to  pay 
live  hundred  francs   upon   his   coming  of  age  was  given  by 
him  soon  after  he  heard  of  the  Ninon  legacy,  and  the  doc- 
ument graces  at  the  present  moment  a  collection  of  autographs 
in  Orleans.     Traces  of  similar  transactions  of  his  have  been 
discovered  in  old  court  records,  and  some  of  them  appear  to 
have  given  him  trouble  many  years  after  their  date.^     It  is 
probable  that  the  chief  advantage  which  he  derived  from  the 
Ninon  legacy  was  its  providing  a  basis,  small  but  solid,  for  his 
credit  with  money  lenders. 

To  complete  his  discontent,  he  suffered  humiliation  this 
year  even  in  his  character  of  poet.  The  Academy  had  offered, 
a  year  or  two  before,  a  prize  of  a  group  in  bronze  for  the  best 
poem  upon  the  king's  magnificent  generosity  in  fulfilling  a 
vow  of  his  father,  Louis  XHL,  by  completing  a  new  choir  in 
the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  Arouet  had  not  only  sent  in 
a  poem  to  compete,  but  had  read  it  to  friends,  and  forwarded 
a  copy  to  the  exiled  Rousseau,  who  returned  generous  praise 
to  the  young  poet.  August  25,  1714,  the  award  of  the  Acad- 
emy was  published,  and  it  was  not  Frangois-Marie  Arouet  who 
received  the  bronze.  By  a  favoritism  so  obvious  that  every 
person  of  taste  in  Paris  remarked  it,  the  prize  was  given  to  a 
garrulous  old  Abbe  du  Jarri,  author  of  two  volumes  of  "  Pane- 
gyrics of  the  Saints,"  and  another  upon  the  "  Eloquence  of  the 
Pulpit,  or  the  Best  Way  of  preaching  the  Word  of  God,"  — 
works  which  I  find  advertised  in  booksellers'  catalogues  of  that 
period.  Du  Jarri  was  so  unlucky  as  to  declare  in  his  poem 
that  the  glory  of  the  king  was  known  throughout  the  whole 
earth,  at  the  burning  poles  as  well  as  at  the  frozen,  which 
gave  the  wits  of  the  Temple  a  fair  opportunity  of  jesting  at 
1  Voltaire,  Sa  Vie  et  ses  (Euvres,  par  Abbe'  Maynard,  vol.  i.  p.  103. 


SOLICITOR'S  CLERK.  71 

his  expense.  It  was  the  poet  La  Motte  who  had  decided  the 
award,  —  the  La  Motte  who  had  taken  the  lead  of  the  liter- 
ary faction  that  objected  to  the  ascendency  of  the  ancients 
over  the  moderns,  and  were  disposed  to  underrate  Homer,  Vir- 
gil, and  Horace.  Du  Jarri,  it  appears,  belonged  to  this  fac- 
tion, a  circumstance  which  was  supposed  to  have  influenced  the 
decision.  When  the  unfortunate  allusion  to  the  burning  poles 
was  pointed  out  to  La  Motte,  he  said  that  no  one  knew  for 
certain  whether  there  was  or  was  not  a  burning  pole,  and  the 
question  was,  in  any  case,  an  affair  of  the  Academy  of  Sci- 
ences, not  of  the  French  Academy.  The  wits  of  the  city 
laughed  at  the  successful  poet,  and  the  disappointed  compet- 
itor relieved  his  mind  by  epigrams  and  satirical  verses,  in 
which  the  aged  abb^,  his  poem,  the  bronze  group,  the  Acad- 
emy, and  La  Motte  were  all  ridiculed.  But  he  could  not  rail 
the  seal  of  the  Academy  off  the  award.  He  remained  un- 
known to  the  great  public,  while  Du  Jarri,  elated  and  ridicu- 
lous, hastened  to  press  with  a  volume  of  "  Poems,  Christian, 
Heroic,  and  Moral." 

Arouet  and  some  of  his  roystering  friends  had  a  ludicrous 
interview  with  the  abb^,  perhaps  in  one  of  the  booksellers' 
shops  of  Paris,  which  were  numerous  and  important  even  then.^ 
Du  Jarri,  not  aware  that  one  of  the  young  men  was  his  com- 
petitor, showed  them  some  of  the  proofs  of  his  new  volume,  the 
first  page  of  which  bore  the  device,  "  To  Immortality."  Not 
supposing  that  they  recognized  him  as  the  author,  he  proceeded 
to  explain  these  words  in  a  style  that  seemed  highly  absurd  to 
the  young  men  :  — 

Du  Jauri.  — "  This  is  the  device  of  the  French  Academy.  The 
piece,  however,  is  not  of  the  Academy,  though  the  Academy  has  adopted 
it ;  and  if  those  gentlemen  had  actually  composed  the  poem  they  would 
not  have  treated  the  subject  otherwise.  You  must  know  that  every 
other  year  the  Academy  offers  a  prize  for  poetry,  and  in  that  way 
every  other  year  immortalizes  somebody.  You  see  in  my  hands  the 
work  which  has  won  the  prize  this  year.  Oh,  how  fortunate  is  the 
author  of  this  poem  !     For  forty  years  he  has  been  composing  without 

1  In  the  eighteenth  century,  publishing  and  printing  formed  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant industries  of  Paris.  A  list  published  in  1701  gives  the  names  of  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy-eight  master  booksellers  iu  business,  thirty-five  out  of  business, 
twenty-seven  widows  still  keeping  shop,  thirty-six  master  printers,  and  nineteen 
widows  carrying  on  printing-offices."     (5  Journal  De  Barbier,  4.) 


72  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

becoming  known  to  the  public  ;  and  now,  for  a  little  poem,  we  see 
him  a  sharer  in  all  the  reputation  of  the  Academy." 

Arouet.  —  "  But  does  it  never  happen  that  an  author  who  is  de- 
clared immortal  by  the  Forty  is  consigned  to  the  rank  of  the  Cotins 
by  the  public,  the  judge  in  the  last  resort  ?  " 

Du  Jarri.  —  "  That  cannot  be ;  for  the  Academy  was  instituted 
for  the  purpose  of  fixing  the  taste  of  France,  and  there  is  no  appeal 
from  its  decisions." 

A  Comrade  of  Arouet.  —  "I  have  some  good  proofs  that  an 
assembly  of  forty  persons  is  not  infallible.  Among  others,  there  is 
the  Cid  and  Furetiere's  Dictionary,  which  sustained  themselves  against 
the  Academy ;  and,  since  it  has  censured  good  books,  it  might  happen 
to  approve  some  very  bad  ones." 

Du  Jarri  (reading  in  a  loud  voice  by  way  of  triumphant  answer  to 
this  remark).  —  "  Christian  prize  poem,  by  Monsieur  the  Abbe  du 
Jarri." 

Arouet.  — "  Before  you  begin  we  ought  to  know  who  Monsieur 
the  Abbe  du  Jarri  is  ;  also  the  subject  of  his  poem  and  the  nature  of 
the  prize." 

Du  Jarri.  —  "  Formerly,  Monsieur  the  Abbe  Jarri  published  sev-  - 
eral  funeral  orations  and  some  sermons.  At  present  he  is  getting 
through  the  press  a  volume  of  his  poems,  and  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve he  is  as  good  a  poet  as  great  orator.  The  subject  of  his  poem 
is  the  praise  of  the  king  upon  the  occasion  of  the  new  choir  of  Notre 
Dame,  erected  by  Louis  XIV.,  and  promised  by  Louis  XIII.  The 
prize  is  a  beautiful  group  in  bronze,  in  which  there  is  a  wonderful 
blending  of  the  fabulous  and  the  sacred ;  Renown  appearing  in  it  near 
Religion,  and  Piety  supported  by  a  Genius.  For  the  rest,  the  rivals 
of  Monsieur  the  Abbe  du  Jarri  were  young  people,  nineteen  or  twenty 
years  old,  while  Monsieur  the  Abbe  is  sixty-five,  and  it  is  very  just 
that  honor  should  be  paid  to  his  age." 

Having  delivered  this  modest  explanation  to  the  mischiev- 
ous youngsters  before  him,  the  abbe  coughed,  and  read  with 
all  an  author's  fond,  discriminating  emphasis  his  Christian 
poem  in  honor  of  the  king.  Such,  at  least,  is  the  report  of  the 
scene  given  by  the  young  rival  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  in  a  let- 
ter to  a  friend.^ 

This  was  harmless  fun  ;  but  among  the  verses  which  the  so- 
licitor's clerk  wrote  on  this  occasion  was  a  short  and  extremely 
disagreeable  satire  called  "Mud"  (^Le  Boiirhier'), — a  word 
which  describes  as  well  as  names  the  piece.     It  was  aimed  at 

1  67  OEuvres  de  Voltaire,  39. 


SOLICITOR'S   CLERK.  73 

La  Motte,  whose  fables  are  still  reckoned  among  the  excellent 
things  produced  in  that  age,  and  it  was  in  every  sense  and  to 
the  uttermost  degree  unbecoming  and  improper,  as  the  author 
of  it  afterwards  admitted.  But  the  writing  of  this  piece  led  to 
his  deliverance  from  the  thraldom  of  the  solicitor's  office,  and 
from  the  meagre  housekeeping  of  Madame  Alain.  His  father, 
who  had  seen  Rousseau  ruined  and  banished  for  couplets  not 
worse  than  the  "  Mud  "  hurled  by  his  son  at  La  Motte,  was 
alarmed  anew  on  his  account,  berated  him  soundly,  and  threat- 
ened to  exclude  him  from  his  house  unless  he  changed  his  way  of 
life  and  attended  more  punctually  to  the  business  of  the  office. 

No  doubt  he  gave  his  father  abundant  cause  of  uneasiness. 
Forty  years  after,  in  writing  to  a  man  of  science,  he  had  occa- 
sion to  discuss  the  prevalent  opinion  of  the  poisonous  nature  of 
powdered  diamond,  and  he  was  able  to  draw  an  illustration  of 
his  point  from  this  wild  period  of  his  youth.  Powdered  glass, 
he  then  learned,  could  be  swallowed  with  impunity  ;  and  if 
glass,  why  not  diamond  ?  He  told  his  learned  friend  that  he 
remembered  seeing  young  men,  in  their  revels,  after  emptying 
their  glasses  in  honor  of  some  eminent  toast  of  the  day,  chew 
those  wine-glasses  to  pieces  and  swallow  them.  "  I  had  the 
misfortune,"  he  adds,  "  to  sup  sometimes,  in  my  youth,  with 
gentlemen  of  that  kind.  They  broke  their  glasses  with  their 
teeth,  and  neither  the  wine  nor  the  glass  did  them  any  harm.^ 

He  could  not  have  done  much  of  such  revelry  as  this ;  his 
constitution  did  not  admit  of  it,  and  we  know  that  he  had  al- 
ways serious  compositions  in  course  of  execution,  upon  which 
he  founded  confident  hopes  of  a  career  which  should  justify 
his  aversion  to  the  profession  of  his  father's  choice. 

Meanwhile,  his  father  remained  unconvinced,  and  strongly  ^-— 
disapproved  of  his  son's  conduct.  He  was  right  and  he  was 
wrong,  as  parents  are  apt  to  be  whose  offspring  prove  to  be 
soaring  falcons  instead  of  respectable  chickens.  This  irasci- 
ble father  stood  indignant  and  alarmed  to  see  his  fledgeling 
resolved  upon  attempting  the  airy  heights,  Avithout  being  yet 
strong  enough  upon  the  wing  to  keep  out  of  le  bourbier.  The 
young  man,  on  his  part,  loathed  the  work  of  Maitre  Alain's 
office,  and  believed  he  had  a  right  to  loathe  it,  as  being  in 
itself  absurd  and  not  his  vocation. 

1  75  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  63. 


74  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

Among  his  fine  friends  of  the  Temple  was  a  young  gen- 
tleman named  Caumartin,  nephew  of   Louis-Urbain  de  Cau- 
martin,   Marquis  de  Saint-Ange,  a   magistrate  of   honorable 
and  old  renown.     The  marquis  was  just  such  a  personage  as 
Maitre  Arouet  desired  his  younger  son  to  become  ;  for  he  had 
made  his  career  in  the  law,  and  now,  after  filling  high  places 
with  honor,  had  retired  to  a  chateau  and  estate  which  he  pos- 
sessed, nine  miles   from  the  royal   palace  of    Fontainebleau. 
The  younger  Caumartin,  it  seems,  conveyed  to  Maitre  Arouet 
an  invitation  for  his  reprobate  son  to  take  up  his  abode  at 
Saint-Ange,  and  there  pursue  legal  studies  in  a  larger  and 
more  agreeable  way  than  was  possible  in  the  office  of  a  Paris 
solicitor.     The  reprobate,  as  Duvernet  intimates,  made  those 
profuse  and  emphatic  promises  which  reprobates  usually  do 
in  such  cases,  and  the  notary  gave  his  consent.     Behold  vir- 
tue again  rewarded  !     In  the  lovely  autumn  days  of  1714  we 
see  the  solicitor's  clerk  turning  his  back  upon  involved  and 
tedious  copying,  and  riding  out  through  a  beautiful  country 
to  an  ancient  and  singularly  interesting  chlteau,  where  he  was 
installed  the  permanent  guest  of  the  man  in  France  who  was 
fullest  of  what  he  wanted  most ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

AT  THE   CHATEAU  OF  SAINT-ANGE. 

No  memory  is  so  likely  to  be  stored  "with  tilings  curious 
and  interesting  as  that  of  an  old  lawyer  and  magistrate.  M. 
de  Caumartin  was  one  of  those  old  lawyers  and  magistrates 
who  have  a  particular  curiosity  with  regard  to  contemporary 
events  and  persons,  and  a  memory  from  which  no  detail  es- 
capes. The  Duke  de  St.  Simon,  not  a  lenient  judge,  describes 
him  as  a  man  of  large  person,  handsome  and  well  formed, 
very  capable  in  law  and  finance,  honest,  obliging,  and  polite, 
though  a  little  given  to  play  the  great  lord  in  a  harmless  way. 
1  "  He  knew  everything,"  continues  the  diarist,  "  in  history,  in 
genealogy,  in  court  anecdotes  ;  and  remembered  everything 
that  he  had  ever  heard  or  read,  even  to  repeating  in  conversa- 
tion whole  pages."  iHis  father  also  had  been  a  public  man,  in 
the  confidence  of  the  government  of  his  time  ;  so  that  the 
present  lord  of  Saint-Arige  knew  familiarly  the  men,  the 
events,  the  gossip,  the  scandal,  the  "  inside  truth  "  of  the  last 
three  reigns,  from  the  stirring  days  of  Henry  IV.  and  the 
League  to  these  sad  closing  weeks  of  Louis  XIV.  A  library, 
rich  in  the  works  of  the  great  age  of  French  literature,  was 
one  of  the  special  treasures  of  the  chateau,  and  the  walls  of 
the  edifice  were  covered  with  portraits  of  the  men  of  whom 
the  old  counselor  most  loved  to  converse  and  the  young  poet 
most  loved  to  hear. 

Imagine  an  American  youth  of  twenty,  educated  in  the  lit- 
eratures of  Greece,  Rome,  and  Judea,  but  knowing  scarcely 
anything  of  the  history  of  his  own  country,  established  as  an 
inmate  of  one  of  our  few  historic  houses,  and  listening  day 
by  day  to  some  fluent,  enthusiastic  grandson  of  a  Lee,  an 
Adams,  a  Jefferson,  a  Madison,  a  Jay,  a  Schuyler,  —  one  who 
had  seen  the  heroes  of  the  Revolution  and  taken  part  in  the 
administrations  of  the   earlier   presidents.       Imagine  the  joy 


76  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

and  pride  with  which  the  young  man  would  discover  that  he, 
too,  had  a  countr}',  and  that  there  had  been  heroes,  statesmen, 
orators,  and  patriots  on  his  native  soil  as  well  as  in  the  lands 
of  old.  M.  de  Caumartin  loved  most  to  dwell  upon  Henry 
IV.,  that  bold  Henry  of  Navarre,  whose  career  had  so  much 
in  it  that  all  men  admire,  and  so  little  that  Frenchmen  cannot 
easily  forgive.  How  varied,  how  strange,  how  fascinating, 
how  long,  the  tale !  What  incident,  what  vicissitude,  what 
men,  what  interests  !  Our  young  poet  heai'd  the  old  man  re- 
late it  spell-bound,  and  fancied  that  here  was  the  great  theme 
for  an  epic  poem,  —  the  Iliad  of  France !  Without  knowing, 
as  he  says,  anything  of  the  nature  or  laws  of  an  epic,  he  be- 
gan tumultuously  to  write  passages  of  a  "  Henriade,"  and  thus 
entered  upon  a  work  which  occupied  him  at  intervals  for  the 
next  ten  years,  and  upon  which  he  expended  more  toil  than 
upon  any  other  of  his  works. 

It  was,  however,  the  long  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  which  M.  de 
Caumartin  personally  knew,  and  of  which  he  could  relate  those 
trivial,  interesting  details  which  make  the  life  of  conversation 
and  narrative.  From  him  the  young  guest  heard  the  anecdote 
of  Louis  XIV.  and  the  battle  of  Ramilies,  which  has  been  so 
often  repeated.  Upon  receiving  the  news  of  the  defeat,  the 
king  said,  "  Has  God,  then,  forgotten  all  that  I  have  done  for 
him  ?  "  This,  was  a  rare  story  for  such  ears  !  Many  such  he 
heard,  and  in  this  agreeable  way  he  began  to  collect  the  stores 
of  material  for  a  work  which  saw  the  light  forty  years  later, 
—  "  The  Age  of  Louis  XIV." 

If  he  came  to  Saint- Ange  to  study  law,  he  forgot  his  pur- 
pose. With  a  manuscript  tragedy  in  his  trunk  which  critics 
had  praised ;  with  an  epic  poem  begun  ;  with  the  history  of 
France,  all  unw'ritten,  surging  in  his  brain ;  with  short  poems 
in  manuscript  circulating  in  Paris  drawing-rooms,  and  escap- 
ing now  and  then  into  print ;  with  a  sympathetic  circle  of  ac- 
complished persons  urging  him  on  toward  the  goal  of  his  am- 
bition ;  living  in  an  historic  chateau  furnished  with  an  ample 
library,  and  listening  daily  to  one  of  the  most  interesting  talk- 
ers of  his  generation,  he  could  not  but  yield  to  manifest  des- 
tiny, and  embrace  finally  the  literary  career.  He  lived,  as  it 
appears,  several  months  at  Saint-Ange,  visiting  Paris  occasion- 
ally, and  always  attentive  to  those  last  events  of  the  reign  of 


AT   THE   CHATEAU   OF   SAINT-ANGE.  77 

Louis  XIV.,  which  he  was  to  relate  by  and  by.     Paris  was 
only  forty  miles  distant,  and  could  easily  be  reached  in  a  day. 

The  king  was  approaching  the  close  of  his  seventy-seventh 
year  in  the  summer  of  1715,  and  there  was  scarcely  an  intelli- 
gent individual  in  France  who  did  not  long  for  his  death.  As 
the  news  of  his  decline  reached  Saint-Ange,  from  time  to  time, 
what  topics  of  discourse  were  furnished  for  the  ancient  master 
of  the  chateau  sitting  at  table  with  so  receptive  a  person  as 
Francois  Arouet !  No  one  could  better  explain  than  the  old 
financier  why  the  king's  treasury  was  a  thousand  million 
francs  behindhand,  and  why  the  king's  paper  was  selling  in 
Paris  at  an  average  discount  of  seventy  per  cent.  For  four- 
teen years  there  had  been  a  large  annual  deficit,  which  had 
been  met  by  every  kind  of  device  which  finance  ministers  had 
been  able  to  invent.     The  lord  of  Saint-Ange  knew  them  all. 

But  it  was  not  the  empty  treasury  and  the  distressed  king- 
dom which  then  occupied  men's  minds.     It  was  a  theological 
imbroglio,  puerile  and  frivolous  in  its  nature,  but  terrible  and 
devastating  in  its  consequences.     The  Bull  Unigenitus  had  re- 
cently been  let  loose  upon  France,  by  Le  Tellier,  the  keeper 
of  the  old  king's  conscience  ;  and  no  wild  beast  breaking  from 
an  Indian  jungle  ever  carried  into  a  defenseless  village  more 
alarm.     M.  de  Caumartin    could  relate  the  whole    history  of 
this  childish  and  tragic  controversy ;  and  we  can  easily  imag- 
ine how  such  a  tale  would  strike  the  mind  of  his  young  guest. 
Maitre  Arouet  was  the  father  of  Francois- Marie,  but  the  Bull 
Unigenitus  had   much  to  do  with    engendering  Voltaire.      I 
think  I  see  this  inquisitive,  laughing  youth,  trained  to  mock- 
ery, but  most  capable  of  compassion,  listening  to  the  old  coun- 
selor's  story  of   the    Bull:    how,  as   long   ago    as   1552,  the 
learned  Dr.  Baius  "  took  it  into  his  head  "  to  sustain  a  number 
of  propositions  touching  predestination,  much  to  the  prejudice 
of  the  doctrine  of  free-will ;  how  some  monks  of  the  Cordelian 
order,  hostile  to  Baius,  selected  "  seventy-six  of  these  proposi- 
tions," denounced  them  to  the  Pope  as  heretical,  and  obtained 
a  Bull  condemning  them  ;  how  the  Bull  contained  a  doubtful 
passage,  the  meaning  of  which  depended  upon  the  position  of 
a  comma,  and  the   friends  of    Baius   sent  to  Rome  to  know 
where  the  comma  was  to  be  placed;  how  Rome,  busy  with 
other  matters,  sent  as  an  answer  a  copy  of  the  Bull  in  which 


78  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  doubtful  sentence  had  no  comma  at  all ;  how  a  learned 
priest  assured  Dr.  Baius  that  a  papal  Bull  must  be  believed 
and  obeyed,  even  though  it  contained  errors ;  and  how  Dr. 
Baius  then  peacefully  retracted,  —  which  was  a  much  better 
plan,  remarks  Voltaire,  than  reducing  a  hundred  cities  to 
ashes  in  the  cause. 

Thus  ended  the  first  chapter  of  the  history  of  the  Bull. 
The  second  included  the  Jansenist  and  Molinist  controversy, 
one  result  of  which  our  young  mocker  had  witnessed  in  his 
own  home,  in  the  un pleasing,  irrational  demeanor  of  his  brother 
Armand.  Molina  was  a  Spanish  Jesuit,  who  sustained  the 
old  doctrine  of  free-will  with  a  new  subtlety  all  his  own. 
Man's  will  is  free,  said  Molina,  but  God  foresees  how  he  will 
exercise  his  will,  and  arranges  all  events  in  .accordance  there- 
with. Jansenius  was  a  French  bishop,  who  wrote  a  huge 
book,  in  which  the  doctrine  of  predestination  was  carried  to 
the  extreme  of  asserting  that  God  commands  some  things 
which  are  impossible,  and  that  Christ  did  not  die  for  all  men. 
The  Jesuits  obtained  a  Bull  in  1641  condemning  the  five 
leading  propositions  of  Jansenius.  But  the  Jansenists  de- 
nied that  those  five  propositions  were  to  be  found  in  the 
Latin  folio  of  their  author,  and  thus  the  controversy  was  re- 
newed and  embittered,  until  another  Bull  in  explanation  gave 
a  momentary  peace  to  the  church. 

All  this  seems  too  silly  to  be  recounted.  But  consider  the 
prize  which  ambitious  men  were  playing  for,  who  used  this 
monks'  quarrel  as  a  pretext.  That  prize  was  the  king's  ear, 
the  control  of  the  benefices,  the  supreme  authority  of  the  na- 
tion !  This  it  was  which  converted  a  theological  controversy 
into  an  engine  of  oppression,  which  filled  prisons,  ruined  fam- 
ilies, exiled  virtuous  men,  and  rendered  hypocrisy  one  of  the 
necessaries  of  life.  It  is  also  a  noteworthy  circumstance,  well 
known  to  all  the  English-speaking  world,  that  the  Jansenist 
theory  of  the  universe,  monstrous  as  it  seems  to  men  of  the 
world,  had  formerl}^  an  attraction  for  educated  persons,  who 
placed  religion  first,  and  everything  else  second.  Theology, 
indeed,  never  came  so  near  the  uglier  truth  of  man's  life  and 
duty  as  in  the  Jansenist  creed,  and  no  further  advance  toward 
truth  was  possible,  except  by  a  change  of  method.  Very  much 
that  was  worthiest,  highest,  strongest,  noblest,  in  France  was 


AT   THE   CHATEAU  OF   SAINT-AXGE.  79 

Jansenist,  from  valiant,  self-denying  Arnauld  and  gifted  Pascal 
to  the  frugal,  industrious,  and  virtuous  business  men  of  French 
cities  and  towns,  the  main-stay  of  the  kingdom,  who  have  kept 
it  solvent  and  strong  in  spite  of  so  many  wasteful  kings  and 
conquerors.  French  catalogues  contain  the  titles  of  seven 
hundred  and  sixty  works  relating  to  this  affair  of  Jansenism 
and  Molinism,  which  plagued  France  for  two  centuries. 

The  quarrel,  in  the  life-time  of  young  Arouet,  had  dwin- 
dled to  the  miserable  question  whether  the  five  propositions 
were  or  were  not  contained  in  the  work  of  Jansenius.  The 
Jesuits  presented  a  formula  to  all  the  "  suspect :  "  "I  con- 
demn from  my  heart  and  with  my  mouth  the  doctrine  of 
the  five  propositions  contained  in  the  book  of  Cornelius  Jan- 
senius, which  doctrine  is  not  that  of  St.  Augustine,  whom 
Jansenius  has  ill  explained."  This  sufficed  to  destroy  the 
Port  Royalists,  since  those  young  ladies  had  never  read  the 
Latin  folio  of  Jansenius,  nor  any  other  Latin,  and  could 
not  conscientiously  declare  that  the  five  propositions  were 
contained  in  the  book.  A  miracle,  as  Voltaire  assures  us, 
retarded  their  downfall  by  some  years.  He  may  have  heard 
the  story  at  Saint-Ange.  A  niece  of  Pascal,  who  attended 
the  school  of  the  contumacious  sisters,  had  a  diseased  eye, 
which  Avas  instantly  cured  by  the  application  of  a  thorn  from 
Christ's  crown,  one  of  the  venerated  relics  of  the  convent. 
He  adds,  "  Some  persons  who  lived  a  long  time  with  her 
assured  me  that  her  cure  was  very  slow,  whicli  is  highly 
probable.  But  it  is  not  very  probable  that  God,  who  per- 
forms no  miracles  to  lead  to  our  religion  nineteen  twentieths 
of  our  race  to  whom  that  religion  is  unknown  or  abhorrent, 
should  have  interrupted  the  order  of  nature  on  behalf  of 
a  little  girl,  in  order  to  justify  a  dozen  nuns  in  sustaining 
that  Cornelius  Jansenius  did  not  write  a  dozen  lines  attrib- 
uted to  him."  The  Jesuits  attempted  miracles  on  their  side, 
but  Jesuit  miracles  had  no  weight  with  the  people  ;  and, 
later  in  the  controversy,  when  a  sister  of  Port  Royal  had  a 
swollen  leg  miraculously  cured,  the  prodigy  did  not  save  their 
convent  from  demolition.  "The  time  was  passed  for  such 
things,  and  Sister  Gertrude  had  no  uncle  Pascal."  ^ 

At  last,  no  man  in  France,  from  the  Cardinal  de  Noailles 
^  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV.,  chaptiT  xxxvii. 


80  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

to  the  obscurest  peasant  in  La  Vendue,  could  live  in  safety, 
or  die  in  peace,  or  be  sure  of  burial,  unless  he  was  prepared 
to  sign  any  absurd  or  self-contradictory  form  of  words  which 
Le  Tellier  might  choose  to  present  to  him.  The  confessor 
made  the  ignorant  old  king  believe  that  a  refusal  to  sign 
was  flat  rebellion,  and  he  made  the  Pope  sanction  a  refusal 
of  the  sacraments  to  such  rebels.  The  Bull  Unigenitus,  so 
named  from  its  first  word,  was  the  last  of  the  anti-Jansen- 
ist  thunder-bolts,  launched  in  1713,  —  the  device  of  Le  Tel- 
lier for  bringing  France  completely  under  his  authority.  It 
condemned  one  hundred  and  one  propositions,  several  of 
which  seemed  to  good  Catholics  harmless  and  true.  All  the 
prisons  were  full  of  Jansenists,  and  Le  Tellier  was  about  to 
proceed  to  the  extremity  of  calling  a  council  to  depose  Car- 
dinal de  Noailles,  the  chief  opponent  of  the  Bull,  when  his 
hand  was  arrested,  at  midsummer,  1715,  by  the  serious  ill- 
ness of  the  kinsf.  The  cardinal  had  become  the  idol  of  the 
nation,  which  was  now  divided  into  two  impassioned  parties, 
Accepters  and  Refusers.  The  Accepters,  as  Voltaire  remarks, 
were  a  hundred  bishops,  the  Jesuits,  the  Capuchins,  and  the 
court;  the  Refusers  were  fifteen  bishops  and  all  the  nation. 
To  such  a  point  can  a  priest  in  power  reduce  a  great  and 
intelligent  nation  when,  in  addition  to  the  ordinary  foibles 
and  faults  of  man,  he  labors  under  the  infirmity  of  believ- 
ing a  narrow  creed. 

This  dismal  business  of  the  Bull  was  the  absorbing  topic 
in  every  circle  during  Arouet's  stay  at  Saint-Ange.  The  con- 
troversy presented  to  his  consideration  a  baleful  mSlange  of 
incongruities  :  ambition  and  disinterestedness,  cowardice  and 
audacity,  credulity  and  conviction,  cruelty  and  tenderness,  sin- 
cerity and  craft,  —  a  combination  of  the  worst  and  best  in 
man,  which,  in  later  years,  this  master  of  words  could  find 
no  adequate  word  for  in  any  language,  and  was  therefore 
obliged  to  call  it  The  Lifamous  Thing. 

In  August,  1715,  heaving  of  the  king's  danger,  he  left  his 
safe  and  advantageous  retreat  of  Saint-Ange,  and  went  to 
Paris,  to  witness  the  change  in  all  things  which  the  coming 
event  was  to  effect.  He  should  have  gone  to  Versailles, 
where  the  king  and  court  then  were,  and  seen  how  ruthlessly 
the  confessor  used  the  king's  dying  agonies  for  his  o^vn  pur- 


AT   THE   CHATEAU   OF   SAINT-ANGE.  81 

poses.  The  memoirs  of  the  Duke  de  Simon,  which  make  this 
reign  an  eternal  admonition  to  mankind,  were  not  published  in 
the  lifetime  of  Voltaire,  and  he  probably  never  knew  precisely 
what  passed  in  the  palace  at  Versailles  during  the  last  few 
days  of  the  king's  life.  The  old  man  died  with  that  peace 
and  dignity  with  which  the  most  injurious  members  of  our 
race  usually  take  leave  of  the  world  they  have  preyed  upon. 
Men  who  pined  for  his  death  were  moved  at  the  spectacle,  — 
all  the  court,  perhaps,  except  one  priest  and  one  woman :  his 
confessor,  Le  Tellier,  and  his  wife,  Madame  de  Maintenon. 
As  the  king  grew  weaker  the  priest  pressed  him  all  the  more 
to  fill  the  vacant  bishoprics  and  abbeys,  several  of  which  were 
important.  He  had  the  list  ready,  and  a  partisan  of  his  own 
designated  for  each  of  the  fat  things.  But  the  king  persisted 
in  refusing.  He  said  he  had  enough  to  answer  for  without 
taking  upon  himself,  in  the  last  hours  of  his  life,  the  respon- 
sibility of  making  those  appointments ;  and  so,  as  the  plain- 
spoken  St.  Simon  expresses  it,  Le  Tellier  saw  that  rich  prey 
escape  him.^ 

The  poor  old  king,  as  the  end  drew  near,  had  some  misgiv- 
ings as  to  his  ecclesiastical  policy.  He  began  to  doubt  whether 
the  best  mode  of  propitiating  God  is  to  force  men  to  subscribe 
formulas  they  loathe,  and  to  drive  from  their  homes  and  coun- 
try a  hundred  thousand  virtuous  families.  His  heart  relented, 
too,  toward  the  Cardinal  de  Noailles,  his  benevolent  and  gen- 
tle Archbishop  of  Paris,  who  had  been  high  in  his  favor  un- 
der the  milder  reign  of  his  former  confessor,  Pere  la  Chaise. 
Fixing  his  eyes  upon  Le  Tellier  and  two  cardinals  who  stood 
by,  the  king  said,  four  days  before  his  death,  •'  I  am  sorry 
to  leave  the  affairs  of  the  church  in  the  condition  in  which 
they  are.  In  such  matters  I  am  perfectly  ignorant.  You 
know,  and  I  call  you  to  witness,  that  I  have  done  nothing  in 
relation  thereto  except  what  you  wished,  and  I  have  done  all 
that  you  wished.  It  is  you,  then,  who  must  answer  before 
God  for  what  I  have  done,  whether  too  much  or  too  little. 
Once  more  I  declare  it,  and  I  charge  you  with  it  before  God. 
My  conscience  is  clear;  it  is  that  of  an  ignorant  man,  who  ab- 
solutely abandoned  himself  to  you  during  the  whole  of  this 
business." 

1  11  St.  Simon,  437,  ed.  of  1874. 
VOL.  I.  6 


82  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

The  cardinals  replied  only  by  new  flatteries,  and  the  king 
resumed  in  a  strain  still  more  affecting :  "  In  my  ignorance 
I  thought  I  could  not  do  better  for  the  peace  of  my  con- 
science than  to  give  myself  up  to  you  in  full  confidence.  As 
to  the  Cardinal  de  Noailles,  God  is  my  witness  that  I  do  not 
bate  him,  and  that  I  have  always  been  sorry  for  what  I  felt  it 
my  duty  to  do  against  him." 

Two  of  the  courtiers  exchanged  glances  at  these  words,  and 
one  of  them  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Ought  we  to  let  the  king 
die  without  seeing  his  archbishop,  and  assuring  him  of  pardon 
and  reconciliation  ?  " 

The  king,  overhearing  them,  declared  that,  so  far  from  ob- 
jecting, he  desired  it.  Here  was  a  thunder-bolt,  indeed,  fallen 
into  the  midst  of  this  group  of  serene  and  smiling  priests  and 
the  woman,  their  tool,  who  was  packing  her  trunks  to  be  off 
before  the  breath  was  out  of  the  king's  body.  They  were 
equal  to  the  emergency.  "  Oh,  yes,"  said  they,  in  substance, 
"  let  him  come,  by  all  means ;  but  first,  for  the  honor  and  safety 
of  the  good  cause,  he  should  obey  the  king  by  accepting  the 
Bull."  The  king,  fatigued,  gave  his  consent  without  argu- 
ment, and  Le  Tellier  enjoyed  a  few  days  more  of  supremacy. 

For  eight  days  the  drawing-room  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
who  was  to  be  regent  during  the  minority,  was  so  crowded 
with  courtiers  in  the  afternoon  that,  "  speaking  literally,  a  pin 
could  not  fall  to  the  floor."  But,  August  29th,  the  king  re- 
vived, ate  two  biscuits  and  drank  a  little  wine  with  some 
relish.  On  that  day,  about  two  in  the  afternoon,  the  Duke  de 
St.  Simon  visited  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  and  found  no  one 
there  except  the  master,  who,  however,  took  this  desertion  in 
good  part.  He  laughed,  and  told  his  visitor  that  not  another 
human  being  had  crossed  his  threshold  all  that  day.  "  Such  is 
man,"  remarks  St.  Simon.  Voild  le  monde  /  Two  days  after, 
on  Sunday  morniug,  September  1,  1715,  the  king's  reign  of 
seventy-two  years  was  at  an  end.  Our  diarist  concludes  his 
narrative  by  an  impressive  statement:  "The  king's  stomach 
and  intestines  were  found  to  be  of  at  least  twice  the  capacity 
of  men  of  his  stature,  —  a  very  extraordinary  circumstance, 
and  the  cause  of  his  being  so  large  and  equal  an  eater."  ' 


^5 


CHAPTER   XI. 

EXILED  FOR  AN  EPIGRAM. 

Our  young  poet  is  in  Paris  again,  never  a  safe  place  for 
him,  from  youth  to  hoary  age.  He  has  brought  with  him  liis 
play,  —  that  "QEdipe"  upon  which  he  has  been  fitfully  work 
ing  for  the  last  two  years,  and  upon  which  he  has  staked  his 
hopes  of  fame  and  fortune ;  for,  even  then,  a  successful  play 
upon  the  Paris  stage  gave  the  author  some  standing  and  con- 
siderable gain. 

As  yet  he  possesses  nothing,  and  is  nobody  ;  for,  at  twenty- 
two,  even  a  good  poet  was  no  longer  a  prodigy.  Nothing  short 
of  a  striking  and  sustained  success  could  justify  his  rejection 
of  the  career  offered  him  by  his  father.  At  present,  great 
lords,  who  laugh  at  his  sallies,  copy  his  verses,  and  make  room 
for  him  at  their  suppers,  speak  and  think  of  him  as  "  little 
Arouet,"  and  smile,  perhaps,  at  the  way  he  has  of  assuming 
an  equality  with  them,  —  an  amusing  little  fellow,  with  a  sur- 
prising knack  at  hitting  off  verses.  The  old  government  of 
France  was  well  enough  described  as  a  despotism  tempered  by 
epigrams ;  but  the  epigram-makers  were  always  liable  to  find 
themselves  in  the  condition  of  shorn  lambs,  without  any  one 
to  temper  the  wind  to  them.  To  get  "  CEdipe  "  played  was 
his  object,  a  thing  of  vast  difficulty  to  an  untried  author. 
Meanwhile,  in  the  early  days  of  the  regency,  he  came  near 
reaching  fortune  by  a  short  cut,  and  he  may  well  have  been 
attentive  to  passing  events.  It  was  not  certain,  when  the 
breath  left  the  old  king's  body,  who  was  to  wield  his  author- 
ity, and  certain  friends  of  the  poet  had  hopes  of  having  a  voice 
in  the  bestowal  of  good  things. 

Louis  XIV.,  who  was  married  at  twenty-two  to  a  princess 
of  Austria,  reared  but  one  legitimate  child,  —  Louis,  the  D.ui- 
phin,  born  in  the  second  year  of  the  marriage.  The  gossips 
of  the  court,  in  speaking  of  this  prince,  used  to  apply  to  liim 


j4  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

an  old  saying,  which  proved  to  be  his  history:  "Son  of  a 
king,  father  of  a  king,  never  a  king."  But  he  lived  to  the  age 
of  fifty  ;  and  as  late  as  April,  1711,  when  his  father  was  sev- 
enty-three, he  seemed  likely  to  disappoint  the  prophets.  He 
I  had  then  three  sons  :  (1)  Louis,  Duke  of  Bourgoyne,  twenty- 
nine  ;  (2)  Philippe,  Duke  of  Anjou,  King  of  Spain,  twenty- 
eight  ;  (3)  Charles,  Duke  of  Berri,  twenty-five.  The  hope  and 
pride  of  France  was  the  eldest  of  these  sons,  the  Duke  of  Bour- 
goyne, who  was  married  to  an  amiable  and  popular  princess, 
'  and  was  the  father  of  two  little  boys,  one  six  years  of  age  and 
the  other  fourteen  months.  This  little  family  stood  between 
France  and  calamities  which  France  had  abundant  reason  to 
dread,  —  a  long  minority  and  a  disputed  succession. 

But  it  seemed  sufficient.  There  were  four  males  in  the  im- 
mediate line  of  succession,  to  say  nothing  of  the  hale  and 
hearty  old  king,  who  could  still  tire  out  most  of  his  court  in 
the  hunting-field,  and  bring  down  a  bird  on  the  wing  as  surely 
as  the  best  of  them.  In  April,  1711,  Monseigneur  the  Dau- 
phin died  of  the  small-pox.  In  February  following,  of  the 
same  or  a  similar  disease,  died,  in  quick  succession,  the  new 
dauphin,  his  wife,  and  their  eldest  son,  leaving  only  their 
youngest  boy,  then  two  years  old,  sick  and  sickly,  who  became 
Louis  XV.  That  feeble,  flickering  life  was  all  that  interposed 
between  France  and  complications  threatening  civil  war.  And, 
finally,  the  Duke  of  Berri,  as  if  to  complete  the  ruin  of  this 
house,  was  killed  in  1714  by  a  fall  from  his  horse.  Knowing 
what  we  know  of  the  history  of  France,  we  cannot  wonder 
that  the  people  of  Paris  should  have  rushed  into  the  streets 
and  filled  the  churches  whenever  it  was  noised  abroad  that  this 
little  boy  had  a  bad  cold. 

The  old  king  had  a  dozen  or  more  illegitimate  children, 
most  of  whom  he  caused  to  be  formally  legitimated.  He  as- 
sio-ned  them  magnificent  chateaux  and  princely  revenues,  and 
compelled  their  recognition  as  princes  of  the  blood  royaL  His 
favorite  among  them  was  Louis-Auguste  de  Bourbon,  Duke  du 
Maine,  a  man  of  forty,  married  to  a  profuse,  ambitious  princess, 
who  lived  in  reckless  magnificence  at  Sceaux,  six  miles  south 
of  Paris.  For  some  years,  the  "court"  of  the  Duchess  du 
Maine  at  Sceaux  had  presented  an  intentional  contrast  to  that 
of  the  old  king,  who,  during  the  thirty  years'  ascendency  of 


EXILED  FOR  AN   EPIGRAM.  85 

Madame  de  Maintenon,  had  a  smile  for  no  courtier  whom  he 
often  missed  at  the  daily  mass.  The  Duchess  du  Maine  loved 
pleasure,  loved  literature  as  one  of  the  forms  of  pleasure,  culti- 
vated literary  persons,  gave  splendid  fetes  out-of-doors  and  in- 
doors, and  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  pageantry  of  life. 
The  duke,  her  husband,  was  a  well-disposed,  weak  man,  who 
stood  in  awe  of  his  father,  and  was  also  very  submissive  to  his 
wife. 

The  people  of  France  were  far  from  approving  the  lawless, 
enforced  ascendency  of  these  hdtards  over  the  whole  nobility 
of  the  kingdom.  France  was  still — nay,  had  been  always, 
and  is  now —  a  virtuous  nation.  In  spite  of  the  bad  example 
of  her  kings  and  priests,  in  spite  of  her  agreeable  Ninons  and 
her  repulsive  saints,  her  sour  Jansenists  and  her  gay  abbes, 
the  mass  of  the  people  of  Fiance  and  the  best  of  her  educated 
class  have  believed  in  virtue,  have  practiced  self-control,  have 
observed  those  fundamental  moralities  from  which  all  happi- 
ness comes.  They  could  not,  therefore,  be  brought  to  regard 
this  Duke  du  Maine  as  a  prince  of  their  royal  line,  — a  soldier 
who  had  not  behaved  well  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy,  when 
a  doting  Xerxes  of  a  father  had  intrusted  him  with  the  lives 
and  honor  of  Frenchmen  better  than  himself. 

The  dying  king  was  persuaded  to  impose  this  favorite  son 
upon  France  as  the  guardian  of  the  heir  to  the  crown,  the  com- 
mander of  the  royal  guards  during  the  minority,  and  King  of 
France  if  the  little  Louis  should  die  before  maturity. 

Louis  XIV.  had  lived  seventy-seven  years,  reigned  seventy- 
two,  and  governed  fifty-four,  without  ever  meeting  one  human 
being  who  could  stand  before  him  and  oppose  his  will.  The 
spirit  of  mastery,  a  thing  essentially  barbarous,  had  been 
nourished  in  him  to  such  a  point  that  he  will  remain  for  this 
alone  an  interesting  study  to  all  time.  His  tutors  began  early 
to  instill  it  into  him.  Among  the  curiosities  shown  in  the  im- 
perial library  at  Petersburgh  is  a  leaf  of  a  copy-book  used  by 
Louis  XIV.  when  he  was  a  dull  little  boy,  learning  to  write. 
His  writing-master  set  him  as  a  copy,  at  the  top  of  the  page, 
French  words  signifying,  — 

Homage  is  due  to  kings;   they  do  whatever  they 

LIKE. 

The  child  wrote  these  words  six  times  upon  the  leaf,  in  a 


86  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

large,  unstead}'  liand,^  and  it  was  nearly  all  lie  ever  learned  of 
the  kingly  state.  When  he  came,  late  in  life,  to  write  instruc- 
tions for  the  guidance  of  his  son,  he  did  little  more  than  enlarge 
ujDon  this  copy-book  text.  Thus  he  wrote :  "  He  who  has 
given  kings  to  men  walls  that  they  should  be  respected  as  his 
lieutenants,  reserving  to  himself  alone  the  right  to  inquire  into 
their  conduct.  His  will  is  that  whosoever  is  born  a  subject 
should  obey  without  question.  Everything  there  is,  in  the 
whole  extent  of  our  dominions,  belongs  to  us.  The  money  in 
our  treasui-y,  the  money  remaining  in  the  hands  of  our  collect- 
ors, and  the  money  which  we  leave  as  currency  in  the  business 
of  our  people  ought  to  be  equally  under  our  control."  Again, 
"  As  the  lives  of  subjects  are  the  king's  own  property,  he  ought 
to  have  all  the  more  care  to  preserve  them."  ^  Holding  such 
opinions  as  these,  he  was  induced  by  the  Duke  du  Maine  and 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  a  week  before  his  death,  to  sign  a  codi- 
cil, which  gave  the  duke  the  substance  of  power  during  the 
minority,  and  left  to  the  Duke  of  Orleans  little  more  than  the 
title  of  regent.  Then  the  usual  mass  was  performed,  and  the 
king  communed;  after  which  he  sent  for  his  nephew  of  Or- 
leans, and,  as  the  terror-stricken  St.  Simon  records,  "  With 
Jesus  Christ  still  upon  his  lips,  he  assured  the  duke  that  he 
would  find  nothing  in  his  will  with  which  he  would  not  be  con- 
tent." 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  difference  between  a  living  and  a 
dead  lion.  The  old  king  had  not  been  dead  two  days  before 
the  codicil  had  been  set  aside,  the  Duke  du  Maine  reduced  sev- 
eral degrees  toward  his  native  nullity,  and  the  Duke  of  Orleans 
confirmed  Regent  of  France,  with  power  all  but  absolute.  The 
brilliant  court  of  the  Duchess  du  Maine  at  Sceaux  suffered  an 
eclipse.  It  remained  the  haunt  of  "  the  pleasures,"  but  did  not 
become  the  seat  of  power.  No  woman,  as  Voltaire  once  re- 
marked, ever  ruined  a  husband  with  more  grace  than  she ;  but 
she  did  not  enjoy  the  opportunity,  which  women  have  since 
done,  of  ruining  France.  The  duchess  set  seriously  at  work 
intriguing  to  undo  what  had  been  done,  and  thus  Sceaux  be- 
came a  sort  of  rendezvous  of  disaffection,  veiled  by  an  apparent 
devotion  to  pleasure. 

'  Histoire  de  France,  par  Henri  Martin,  tome  xiv.  page  616. 
2  2  CEuvres  de  Louis  XIV.,  336,  etc.,  edition  of  1806. 


EXILED  FOR  AN  EPIGRAM.  87 

The  literary  circle  of  the  Temple  were  also  disappointed  Ut 
the  beginning  of  the  regency.  The  Grand  Prior,  Philippe 
de  Vendome,  returned  to  his  palace  in  the  Temple  after  long 
exile,  and  his  ancient  comrade,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  desired  to 
appoint  him  a  member  of  his  council.  The  virtuous  St.  Simon 
rose  indignant  at  the  I'umor,  and  roused  all  his  bi'other  dukes. 
Finally,  he  told  the  regent  that  if  that  debauched  scoundrel 
entered  the  council,  and  thus  took  precedence  of  the  nobility, 
the  dukes  would  resign  their  places  and  leave  the  court.  The 
Grand  Prior  was  not  appointed,  and  had  nothing  to  give  little 
Arouet  except  verses,  suppers,  too  much  wine,  and  a  bad  ex- 
ample of  getting  drunk  every  evening. 

That  young  man  (a  moth  amid  these  flaming  candles),  not 
aware  how  fate  was  playing  with  him,  resumed  his  old  way 
of  life  in  Paris,  always  busy  and  inquisitive.  Old  things 
were  passing  away,  and  he  was  observant  of  the  change.  On 
the  day  of  the  king's  funeral,  he  was  out  on  the  road  to  St. 
Denis,  near  Paris^  where  for  eleven  hundred  years  kings  of 
France  had  been  buried.  It  was  more  like  a  festival  than  a 
funeral.  "  I  saw  little  tents,"  he  records,  "  set  up  along  the 
road,  in  which  people  drank,  sang,  laughed.  The  sentiments 
of  the  citizens  of  Paris  had  passed  into  the  minds  of  the  popu- 
lace. The  Jesuit,  Le  Tellier,  was  the  principal  cause  of  this 
miiversal  joy.  I  heard  several  spectators  say  that  the  torches 
which  lighted  the  procession  ought  to  be  used  for  setting  fire 
to  the  houses  of  the  Jesuits."  France,  as  he  says  elsewhere, 
forgave  the  king  his  mistresses,  but  not  his  confessor.  He 
may  have  contributed  to  the  merriment  of  the  crowd  by  a  bur- 
lesque invitation  to  the  funeral  of  the  Bull  Unigenitus,  which 
was  circulating  in  these  days  of  gayety  and  relief.  He  Avas 
getting  a  kind  of  reputation  that  led  knowing  people  to  point 
to  Jiim  when  anything  particularly  impudent  appeared.  The 
burlesque  spoke  of  the  deceased  Constitution  as  the  natural 
daughter  of  Clement  XL,  and  she  was  said  to  have  died  of 
grief  at  the  loss  of  seventy-seven  per  cent.  Le  Tellier  was  to 
head  the  mourners,  and  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Paris,  who 
bad  profited  much  by  the  dame's  decease,  had  been  named  to 
the  Abbey  of  Notre  Dame  des  Victoires.  And,  indeed,  it  was 
through  the  aid  of  the  Cardinal  de  Noailles  that  the  regent 
quieted  that  ridiculous  and  deadly  dispute.     A  sinner  with  a 


88  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

little  sense  and  good  nature  found  it  easy  to  heal  a  wound 
which  the  pious  old  king  had  only  touched  to  inflame.^ 

What  a  joyful  opening  of  prison  doors  the  young  poet  wit- 
nessed in  those  days  !  The  first  time  the  regent  sat  in  his 
official  seat  in  his  cabinet,  he  called  for  a  list  of  all  the  persons 
then  in  prison  through  lettres  de  cachet,  —  the  mere  order  of 
the  king.  Upon  inquiring  into  the  causes  of  their  detention, 
he  discovered  that  in  the  case  of  many  prisoners  no  living 
creature  knew  any  cause,  nor  was  there  any  record  of  a  cause. 
They  had  been  simply  forgotten  !  A  large  number  of  pris- 
oners did  not  themselves  know,  and  could  not  guess,  why  they 
had  been  arrested.  The  worst  case,  out  of  a  number  of  ex- 
tremely bad  ones,  was  that  of  an  Italian,  who  had  been  in  the 
Bastille  thirty-three  years  without  knowing  why.  Thirty- 
three  years  before,  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  had 
been  arrested  and  conveyed  to  the  Bastille,  and  there  he  had 
lived  and  grown  old,  surviving  all  his  family  and  friends. 
When  the  regent  set  free  all  these  forgotten  victims  of  priestly 
arrogance  and  ministerial  intrigue,  this  poor  Italian  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  remain  in  the  Bastille ;  and  he  lived  there,  by 
the  regent's  allowance,  all  the  rest  of  his  days.  But  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  did  not  abolish  lettres  de  cachet,  which  made 
these  appalling  abuses  of  the  royal  authority  possible,  — nay, 
easy  and  unavoidable. 

The  autumn  and  winter  following  the  king's  death,  our 
young  poet  frequented  more  than  ever  the  society  of  the  Tem- 
ple, working  zealously  also  to  perfect  his  play  and  procure  its 
acceptance  at  the  theatre.  It  was  through  his  zeal  to  improve 
his  "  CEdipe  "  and  make  friends  for  it  that  the  moth  came  too 
near  the  flame,  and  had  its  flight  suddenly  arrested.  He  read 
"  QEdipe,"  one  evening,  at  the  abode  of  a  literary  and  fes- 
tive member  of  the  Temple  coterie,  Abb^  de  Bussi,  where, 
among  the  guests,  were  the  Abbe  Chaulieu  and  the  Grand 
Prior,  then  in  full  intrigue  to  be  reckoned  among  the  princes 
of  the  blood  royal.  Supper  over,  the  young  poet  read  his 
play,  a  wonderful  work,  indeed,  for  a  lad  of  nineteen  to  con- 

1  Le  Tellier,  appointed  by  the  will  of  the  late  king  confessor  to  Louis  XV., 
and  having  nothing  to  do,  owing  to  the  tender  age  of  that  monarch,  asked  the  re- 
gent what  was  to  be  his  present  distinction.  "  That  is  no  affair  of  mine,"  answered 
the  regent ;  "  address  yourself  to  your  superiors."     (Me'moires  de  Duclos.) 


EXILED  FOR   AN  EPIGRAM.  89 

ceive,  —  a  poem  full  of  spirit  and  fire,  cast  in  the  ancient 
mould,  but  containing  passages,  and  even  scenes,  only  sur- 
passed by  Racine  and  Corneille.  The  old  critics  favored  the 
young  dramatist  with  their  remarks.  "  That  supper,"  he  wrote 
to  Chaulieu  soon  after,  "  did  great  good  to  my  tragedy,  and  I 
believe  it  would  be  only  necessary  to  drink  four  or  five  times 
with  you  to  produce  an  excellent  work.  Socrates  gave  lessons 
in  bed,  and  you  at  table  ;  hence  your  lessons  are  doubtless 
more  agreeable  than  his  were."  This  reading  was  the  more 
delightful  to  the  Abb(i  de  Chaulieu  because  he  was  then  sev- 
enty-seven years  of  age,  and,  from  the  failure  of  his  eyesight, 
could  scarcely  read  himself. 

Old  as  the  abb^  was,  his  continent  and  temperate  ancestors 
had  put  such  vigorous  life  into  him  that  he  was  in  love  this 
winter  with  a  young  lady  in  the  service  of  the  Duchess  du 
Maine  in  the  capacity  of  reader  ;  and  when  the  duchess  re- 
moved from  Sceaux  to  the  Tuileries  he  had  convenient  op- 
portunity of  pajdng  court  to  his  beloved.  The  lady  (Baron- 
ess de  Staal)  gives  us  in  her  Memoirs  extensive  love  poems 
which  the  amorous  old  abb^  sent  her,  as  well  as  several  anec- 
dotes showing  unusual  ardor  in  a  lover  of  seventy-seven.  He 
lent  her  his  carriage  every  day  when  she  would  accept  it.  He 
wrote  every  morning  and  came  every  evening.  He  assailed 
her  with  costly  presents;  and  when  he  reproached  her  for 
refusing  them,  and  alluded  to  the  extreme  plainness  of  her 
attire,  she  made  him  the  celebrated  answer,  "  I  am  adorned 
with  all  that  my  costume  lacks."  The  abbe's  little  lackey, 
who  usually  conveyed  his  tender  epistles,  came  to  her  one  day 
in  sorrow,  and  told  her  his  master  had  dismissed  him.  "  Go 
home,"  said  she,  "  and  tell  him  you  are  going  to  stay,  for 
such  is  my  pleasure."  The  abbe  submitted ;  the  tiger  was  re- 
tained.^ 

The  abbd  could  not  omit  to  pay  homage  to  the  duchess,  who 
was  more  than  ever  disposed  to  favor  literary  men,  of  whom 
she  made  use  in  her  struggle  to  keep  her  rank.  Every  kind 
of  writing  appeared  on  behalf  of  the  "  legitimated  princes," 
—  poems,  satires,  couplets,  memoirs,  —  the  duchess  herself 
lending  a  hand,  and  all  her  court  rummaging  for  precedents 
in  former  reigns.  "  She  employed  most  of  her  nights  in  this 
1  Memoires  de  Madame  de  Staal. 


90  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

work,"  records  tlie  Baroness  de  Staal.  "  The  immense  vol- 
umes heaped  upon  her  bed,  like  mountains  overwhelming  her, 
made  her  look,  as  she  said,  like  the  giant  buried  under  Mount 
^tna."  Never  was  she  in  better  mood  to  listen  to  the  Abbe 
de  Chaulieu's  praises  of  the  wondrous  Arouet,  and  the  fine 
tragedy  he  was  trying  to  get  accepted  at  the  theatre.  The 
poet  was  presented  to  her  most  serene  highness  ;  he  joined  in 
her  moonlight  festivals  —  her  "white  nights"  —  at  Sceaux  ; 
he  had  the  honor  of  reading  "  Qidipe  "  to  her ;  and  he  became 
one  of  the  frequenters  of  her  "  court." 

He  knew  how  to  adapt  himself  to  such  scenes  as  these,  and 
even  at  this  age  he  had  the  art  of  assuming  an  equality  with 
these  artificial  magnates  of  the  world  without  offending  them. 
No  man  ever  equaled  him  in  this  art,  and  no  man  ever  had  so 
much  occasion  for  it.  The  Grand  Prior,  for  example,  who 
was  of  princely  rank,  was  desirous  of  being  styled  Royal  High- 
ness, instead  of  plain  Highness.  It  was  a  stroke  of  art,  as 
well  as  wit,  in  this  youth  to  address  him  as  his  Warbling 
Highness  (^so7i  Alt  esse  Chansoniere^.  The  Marquis  d'Argen- 
son,  a  school-fellow  of  Arouet,  relates  this  anecdote  in  his 
Memoirs,  as  an  instance  of  "  the  tone  of  ease  which  he  al- 
ways took  with  great  lords  ; "  and  it  was  to  the  same  marquis 
that  Voltaire  once  explained  the  secret  of  his  ability  to  hold 
this  tone. 

"  Souls,"  said  Voltaire,  "  communicate  with  souls,  and  can 
measure  one  another  without  need  of  an  intermediate  body. 
It  is  only  the  greatness  or  the  worth  of  a  soul  that  ought  to 
frighten  or  intimidate  us.  To  fear  or  to  respect  the  body  and 
its  accessories  —  force,  beauty,  royalty,  rank,  office  —  is  pure 
imbecility.  Men  are  born  equal  and  die  equal.  Let  us  re- 
spect the  virtue,  the  merit  of  their  souls,  and  despise  the  im- 
perfections of  those  souls." 

This  principle,  he  said,  he  had  early  adopted  and  practiced. 
But  there  was  another  lesson  which  he  learned  later,  though 
he  needed  it  now. 

"  Doubtless,"  he  continued,  "  we  should  by  prudence  avoid 
the  evil  which  that  physical  force  can  do  us,  as  we  should 
guard  ourselves  against  a  crowned  bull,  an  enthroned  monkey, 
a  savage  dog  let  loose  upon  us.  Let  us  beware  of  such.  Let 
us  even   endeavor,  if   possible,  to   moderate  them,  to  soften 


BAI^ISHED  FOR  AN  EPIGRAM.  91 

them ;  but  this  sentiment  is  very  different  from  the  esteem 
and  respect  which  we  owe  to  souls." 

Elsewhere  he  gives  this  maxim  :  "  By  having  it  well  at 
heart  that  men  are  equal,  and  clearly  in  the  head  that  exter- 
nals distinguish  them,  one  can  get  on  very  well  in  the  world." 

Time  passed,  and  he  made  no  progress  with  the  actors. 
During  the  winter  he  read  his  play  and  parts  of  it  to  other 
friends,  never  weary  of  retouching  it.  In  the  Lent  of  1816  he 
was  again  a  guest  at  Saint- Ange  ;  "  living  upon  pheasants  and 
partridges,"  as  he  wrote  in  verse  to  the  Grand  Prior,  "in- 
stead of  red  herring  and  water-cress,  which,  in  these  days, 
blessed  of  God,  every  monk  and  bigot  eats."  Again  he 
listened  to  M.  de  Caumartin,  who  "  carried  in  his  brain  the 
living  history  of  his  time,  —  all  the  deeds  and  all  the  words  of 
the  great  men  and  of  the  wits,  a  thousand  charming  trifles, 
songs  new  and  old,  and  the  exhaustless  annals  of  the  fools  of 

aris. 

In  May,  1716,  he  was  in  Paris  swelling  those  annals.  The 
press  still  teemed  with  writings,  in  prose  and  verse,  against 
the  regent,  most  of  which,  as  the  regent  well  knew,  were  in- 
spired by  the  Duchess  du  Maine.  He  was  a  good-natured 
prince,  but  we  know  from  St.  Simon  that  verses  accusing  him 
of  monstrous  crimes  against  nature  and  natural  affection  cut 
him  to  the  heart  sometimes.  One  innocent  epigram  Arouet 
composed  about  this  time,  and  how  many  more  we  know  not. 
Among  other  reforms  the  regent  reduced  the  horses  in  the 
royal  stables  one  half.  Arouet's  epigram  intimated  that  His 
Royal  Highness  would  do  better  to  dismiss  one  half  the  asses 
that  had  surrounded  his  late  majesty.  There  were  also  coup- 
lets and  other  verses  afloat  which  reflected  upon  the  young 
widow  of  the  late  Duke  of  Berri,  the  regent's  own  daughter. 
This  lady  was  a  conspicuous  defier  of  the  conventionalities. 
Maflame  de  Genlis  reports  that  she  herself  saw  a  portrait  of 
the  Duchess  of  Berri  as  Europa  riding  upon  the  bull,  painted 
from  life.  Be  that  as  it  may,  there  were  satirical  verses  in 
every  hand  assuming  that  she  was  a  woman  capable  of  every 
excess  and  every  indecorum. 

Nothing  is  more  probable  than  that  Arouet  gratified  the 
Duchess  du  Maine  by  writing  satirical  poems.  "  The  duch- 
ess," says  the  biographer  of  the  regent  (M.  Capefigue),  "  die- 


92  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

tated  ideas  to  the  poets,  and  young  Arouet  was  not  tlie  last  to 
throw  himself  into  the  struggle  against  the  Duke  of  Orleans." 
He  did  not  struggle  long.  Early  in  May,  1716,  the  old  Mar- 
quis of  Dangeau  made  the  following  entr}'^  in  his  diary :  "  Lit- 
tle Arouet,  a  ver}^  satirical  and  a  very  imprudent  poet,  has 
been  exiled.  He  has  been  sent  to  Tulle,  and  is  already  out  of 
Paris." 

The  order  of  exile,  dated  May  5,  1716,  vouchsafed  no  ex- 
planation of  the  cause  :  "  The  intention  of  His  Royal  Highness 
is  that  the  Sieur  Arouet,  the  son,  should  be  sent  to  Tulle." 
No  more.  Tulle  was  then,  as  it  is  now,  a  manufacturing  town, 
nearly  three  hundred  miles  south  of  Paris,  —  three  hundred 
miles  from  the  theatre,  from  the  Temple,  from  Sceaux,  from 
Saint-Ange,  from  everything  to  which  this  imprudent  poet 
looked  for  a  career.  Tulle !  What  a  cutting  retort  from  a 
regent  unable  to  meet  epigram  with  epigram !  Tulle  had  not 
yet  given  its  name  to  a  delicate  and  beautiful  fabric  which 
ladies  love.  In  1716  it  was  a  town  of  many  tan-yards,  the 
savor  of  which  was  familiar  to  the  ancestors  of  our  poet,  but 
not  on  that  account  the  less  offensive  to  him.  Candles  were 
made  there,  and  nails,  and  coarse  woolen  cloths,  and  other 
commodities,  of  little  interest  to  the  author  of  "  (Edipe  "  and 
the  guest  of  Saint-Ange. 

Even  Arouet,  pere^  deemed  Tulle  too  severe,  and  it  was  at 
his  solicitation  that  the  regent  changed  the  place  of  exile 
from  Tulle  to  Sully-upon-the-Loire,  less  than  a  hundred  miles 
from  the  theatre  of  his  hopes.  Why  Sully  ?  Because,  said 
Maitre  Arouet,  the  young  man  has  relations  there  who,  "  he 
hoped,  would  be  able  by  their  good  advice  to  correct  his  impru- 
dence and  moderate  his  vivacity."  The  youth  may  have  had 
relations  in  that  region,  but  he  lived  during  the  whole  of  his 
exile  in  a  fine  old  chateau  belonging  to  the  Duke  of  Sully, 
which  Henry  IV.  had  given  to  the  family  when  the  voice  of  a 
Sully  was  second  only  to  his  own  in  the  councils  of  the  state. 
This  young  man  had  remarkable  luck  in  falling  upon  his  feet. 
What  better  could  the  Duke  of  Sully  himself  do  than  repair 
to  his  chateau  on  the  Loire  during  the  delightful  days  of  May  ? 
"  I  write  to  you,"  the  poet  said  to  the  Abb^  de  Chaulieu, 
after  two  months'  stay  at  the  chateau,  "  from  an  abode  that 
would  be  the  most  agreeable  in  the  world  if  I  had  not  been 


BANISHED  FOR  AN  EPIGRAM.  93 

exiled  to  it,  and  where  there  is  nothing  wanting  to  ray  perfect 
happiness  except  the  liberty  of  leaving." 

To  the  Marquise  de  Mimeure,  a  lady  to  whom  he  had  read 
"  CEdipe,"  he  wrote  some  time  after  :  "  It  would  be  delicious 
for  me  to  remain  at  Sully  if  I  were  only  allowed  to  go  away. 
The  duke  is  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and  the  one  to  whom  I 
am  under  the  greatest  obligations.    His  chateau  is  in  the  most 
beautiful  situation  in  the  world,  with  a  magnificent  wood  near* 
by.  ...  It  is  quite  just  that  they  should  give  me  an  agreea-f 
ble  exile,  for  I  am  absolutely  innocent  of  the  unworthy  songs 
attributed  to  me.    You  would  be  astonished,  perhaps,  if  I  should' 
tell  you  that  in  this  beautiful  wood  we  have  some  tvhite  nights^ 
as  at  Sceaux,  in  a  grand  saloon  of  elms  lighted  by  an  infinite 
number  of  lanterns,  where  was  served,  the  other  evening,  a 
magnificent  supper  to  the  music  of  a  band,  followed  by  a  ball 
of  more  than  a  hundred  masks  superbly  attired." 

The  hunting  season  filled  the  chateau  with  sportsmen, 
"  who,"  as  he  wrote,  "  spend  the  lovely  days  in  assassinating 
partridges."  For  his  own  part,  he  had  "  some  interest  with 
Apollo,  but  not  much  with  Diana."  "  I  hunt  little,  and 
rhyme  a  great  deal."  He  told  his  correspondent  not  to  make 
known  his  happiness  in  Paris,  for  they  might  let  him  stay  at 
Sully  long  enough  for  him  to  become  unhappy  there. 

But  all  this  time  he  was  scheming  to  get  back  to  Paris. 
As  it  was  his  pen  that  exiled  him,  it  was  his  pen  that  brought' 
about  his  return.  He  wrote  a  poem,  addressed  to  the  regent, 
in  that  mingled  tone  of  familiarity  and  homage  which  marked 
his  dealings  with  "  the  great."  He  concluded  by  an  adroit 
allusion  to  his  own  case  :  "  Beneficent  toward  all,  to  me 
alone  severe,  you  doom  me  to  a  rigorous  exile.  But  I  dare 
appeal  from  yourself  to  yourself.  Before  you  I  wish  no  sup- 
port but  innocence.  I  implore  your  justice,  not  your  clem- 
ency. Do  but  read  these  lines,  and  judge  of  their  worth. 
See  what  verses  are  imputed  to  me,  and  see  what  I  write." 

He  sent  copies  of  this  poem  to  favorites  of  the  regent,  ask- 
ing them  to  "  cast  an  eye  over  it,"  and  tell  him  frankly  if  it 
was  worthy  of  such  a  prince.  He  begged  them  to  send  crit- 
ical comments  upon  the  poem,  that  he  might  improve  it  to  the 
uttermost  of  his  powers.  To  one,  "  It  shall  not  see  the  light 
until  you  judge  it  worthy  of  publication."     To  another,  "  If 


94  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

I  had  the  honor  to  be  better  known  to  you  than  I  am,  you 
would  see  that  in  this  composition  I  speak  as  I  think."  These 
tactics  were  rewarded  with  success  ;  and  about  the  time  when 
great  lords,  tired  of  assassinating  partridges,  came  to  Paris 
to  pursue  fair  and  featherless  bipeds,  Arouet  also  arrived,  to 
resume  his  efforts  to  get  his  tragedy  accepted  at  the  theatre. 
fit  was  time  he  had  something  to  show  in  reply  to  his  father's 
remonstrances ;  for  he  was  approaching  twenty-three,  and  was 
still  a  hanger-on  at  the  houses  of  other  men,  dependent  upon 
his  father  for  all  except  his  lodging.  A  Duchess  du  Maine 
may  have  given  him  some  golden  louis;  princes  and  prin- 
cesses did  such  things  then,  and  poets  submitted  to  accept  the 
bounty,  though  they  usually  refrained  from  recording  it. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  songs  of  which  he  was  accused  in 
these  green  days,  take  this  upon  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
which  has  waited  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  to  see  the  light 
of  print:  — 

"  Que  I'Eternel  est  grand !  Que  sa  boute  puissante 
A  comble  mes  desirs,  a  pave'  mes  travaux  ! 
Je  naquis  demoiselle  et  je  devins  servante : 
Je  lavai  la  vaisselle  et  frottai  les  bureaux. 

"  J'eus  bientot  des  amants  :  je  ne  fus  point  ingrate; 
De  Villarceaux  longtemps  j'amusai  les  transports ; 
II  me  fit  epouser  ce  fameux  cul-de-jatte 
Qui  vivait  de  ses  vers,  comme  moi  de  mon  corps. 

"  II  mourut.  Je  fus  pauvre,  et  vieille  devenue, 
Mes  amants,  de'goute's,  me  laissaient  toute  nue, 
Lorsqu'un  tyran  me  crut  propre  encore  au  plaisir. 

"  Je  lui  plus,  il  m'aima  :  je  fis  la  Madeleine, 
Par  des  refus  adroits  j'irritai  ses  desirs; 
Je  lui  parlai  du  diable,  il  eut  peur  .  .  .  .  Je  suis  reine."i 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  did  not  love  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
but  the  regent  of  France  could  not  allow  such  verses,  aimed 
at  the  wife  of  the  late  king. 

1  Le  Sottisier  de  Voltaire,  Paris,  1880. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

IN  THE  BASTILLE. 

The  Duke  of  Orleans,  regent  during  the  minority  of  the 
young  king,  was  forty-one  years  of  age  at  the  death  of  Louis 
XIV.  He  was  of  medium  stature,  inclining  to  stoutness,  of 
open,  engaging  countenance,  rosy-cheeked  and  black-haired. 
We  may  say  of  him  that  he  deserved  to  be  virtuous,  so  well 
disposed  was  he,  so  amiable  in  his  demeanor,  so  affectionate 
in  his  family,  so  attentive  to  all  the  ameliorating  etiquettes  of 
his  rank.  In  his  public  capacity  he  did  several  wise  and  lib- 
eral actions.  He  promptly  suppressed  the  odious  Le  Tellier, 
and  stopped  the  ravages  of  tlie  Bull  Unigenitus.  He  refused 
even  to  entertain  the  proposition  of  expunging  the  vast  op- 
pressive debt  of  France  by  a  formal  bankruptcy.  He  lessened 
the  expenses  of  the  court,  dismissing,  as  our  Arouet  saucily 
advised,  a  portion  of  the  late  king's  asses,  as  well  as  selling 
half  his  majesty's  horses. 

But  one  condition  of  all  genuine  and  lasting  success  in  this 
world  is  habitual  obedience  to  the  physical  laws.  Bad  men 
are  as  much  subject  to  this  condition  as  good  men,  because 
violation  of  those  laws  is  a  waste  of  power.  This  rosy 
Bacchus  of  a  prince  did  not  comply  with  the  indispensable 
preliminary.  He  was  a  child  of  his  period,  —  of  our  period, — 
when  so  many  young  men,  on  discovering  that  there  are  er- 
rors in  the  accepted  scheme  of  the  universe,  assume  also  that 
ginger  will  not  burn  in  the  mouth.  Add  to  this  his  absurd 
"  rank,"  his  pernicious  wealth,  his  perverse  education,  the  ex- 
ample of  his  ancestors,  living  and  dead,  and  the  force  of  habit. 
After  living  twenty  years  of  mature  life  with  no  object  but 
pleasure,  suddenly,  by  a  series  of  deaths  which  no  one  could 
have  thought  remotely  probable,  this  round  and  ruddy  Bour- 
bon finds  himself  master  of  France.  And  of  such  a  France  ! 
A   fair  and  fertile  land  exhausted  by  the  long  reign  of  the 


9G  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

most  expensive  and  incompetent  of  kings,  and  required  to 
confront,  all  at  once,  a  cruel  accumulation  of  evils.  The  old 
king  was  dead  and  forgotten.  The  new  king  was  a  little  boy, 
shooting  sparrows  for  his  amusement.  The  regent  had  the 
honor  of  serving  his  countrymen  in  the  character  of  scape- 
goat, and  in  that  character  his  success  was  complete. 

At  first  he  attended  to  public  business  with  some  steadi- 
ness and  assiduity;  but  he  soon  fell  into  that  routine  of  self- 
indulgence  which  gave  so  much  plausibility  to  the  worst  cal- 
umnies. He  began  the  labors  of  the  day,  as  his  friend,  the 
Duke  of  St.  Simon,  sorrowfully  records,  about  two  or  half- 
past  two  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  entered  his  dressing-room, 
took  his  chocolate,  and  received  "  all  the  world,''  that  is, 
all  the  coui't  and  nobility  who  had  the  entree  at  the  king's 
lever.  He  chatted  familiarly  with  them  for  half  an  hour  or 
more,  and  then  gave  formal  audience  to  individuals  having 
business  with  him.  He  usually  paid,  next,  a  brief  visit  to  the 
duchess,  his  wife ;  and,  invariably,  once  during  the  day,  he 
went  to  see  the  little  king  in  his  wing  of  the  palace.  The 
court  remarked  with  pleasure  that  the  regent,  both  on  enter- 
ing and  on  leaving  the  presence  of  the  child,  then  seven 
years  old,  bowed  as  low  and  as  "  reverently  "  as  if  the  king  had 
been  of  full  age.  Frequently  he  visited  his  mother,  that 
plain-spoken  princess  whose  wondrous  Memoirs  complete  our 
knowledge  of  the  later  court  of  the  old  king;  and  her  also  he 
treated  with  due  respect.  He  next  presided  at  a  short  ses- 
sion of  the  council,  and  transacted  with  ministers  the  indis- 
pensable routine  of  business. 

This  brought  him  to  five  or  six  o'clock,  after  which  he 
gave  himself  wholly  up  to  pleasure.  On  returning  from  the 
opera  or  the  theatre  he  liked  to  have  a  gay  and  free  supper 
with  his  familiars,  of  which  the  virtuous  St.  Simon  gives 
us  a  sorry  account.  The  company  at  these  suppers  he  justly 
describes  as  "  strange."  The  regent's  mistress  of  the  hour 
was  sure  to  be  present ;  sometimes,  a  number  of  opera  girls  ; 
often.)  the  Duchess  of  Berri,  the  regent's  daughter  ;  usually, 
a  dozen  men  noted  for  their  debauchery  or  their  talents,  — 
dukes,  ministers,  lords,  and  poets  ;  also,  some  ladies  of  "  mid- 
dling virtue"  (moyenne  vertu).  The  fare  at  these  repasts  was 
"  exquisite."      It  was  cooked  in  kitchens  made  on  purpose, 


IN   THE   BASTILLE.  97 

adjoining  the  supper-room,  in  silver  vessels  ;  and  often  the 
guests  lent  a  hand  to  the  cooks  in  preparing  some  of  the 
dishes.  The  conversation  was  the  freest  possible,  and  spared 
no  one,  living  or  dead,  present  or  absent,  man  or  Avoman. 
Such  a  supper,  at  which  the  best  wine  in  the  world  flows  free, 
cannot  but  become  at  last  a  noisy,  vulgar  debauch ;  and, 
doubtless,  our  Polonius,  St.  Simon,  uttered  only  the  literal 
truth  when  he  wrote,  "  They  drank  deeply  and  of  the  best 
wine  ;  they  grew  warm  ;  they  talked  shamelessly  with  un- 
covered bosom,  and  strove  which  could  utter  the  grossest 
impieties  ;  and  when  they  had  made  some  noise,  and  were 
very  drunk,  they  went  to  bed,  to  recommence  on  the  morrow." 
From  the  moment  of  the  regent's  sitting  down  to  supper 
until  the  next  morning,  he  was  "  barricaded  "  against  all 
approach  of  business.  He  would  see  no  one,  and  receive  no 
message,  upon  the  most  pressing  affair  of  state,  even  though 
it  concerned  his  own  immediate  safety. 

To  increase  the  ill  effect  of  this  example,  he  trampled  upon 
the  most  cherished  decorums  of  his  country,  having  some- 
times a  wilder  orgy  than  usual  on  such  a  day  as  Good  Fri- 
day, —  a  thing  which  even  bad  Catholics  usually  avoid.  Ro- 
bust and  capable  of  enduring  great  excesses,  he  had  a  particu- 
lar admiration  for  men  who  could  go  farther  than  himself 
in  debauchery.  "I  have  heard  him,"  says  St.  Simon,  "ex- 
press ceaseless  admiration,  carried  to  the  point  of  esteem,  for 
the  Grand  Prior,  because  he  had  gone  to  bed  drunk  for  forty 
years,  had  always  kept  mistresses  openly,  and  spoken  contin- 
ually against  piety  and  religion."  The  old  king,  indeed,  once 
said  of  him  :  "  Do  you  know  what  my  nephew  is  ?  He  is  a 
braggart  of  crimes  which  he  does  not  commit." 

A  prince  who  lives  so  in  the  sight  of  a  distressed  and 
anxious  people  will  be  taken  seriously,  and  will  be  accused  of 
offenses  far  worse  than  those  he  commits.  The  old  king 
brought  the  kingdom  to  the  verge  of  ruin ;  he  drove  from  it 
the  most  valuable  citizens  it  possessed;  he  suspended  the 
growth  of  its  intellect ;  he  prepared  the  way  for  evils  from 
which  France  has  not  yet  ceased  to  suffer ;  he  was  to  France 
all  the  harm  and  hindrance  an  individual  could  be.  But  he 
observed  the  decorums ;  he  was  studious  of  appearances. 
Every  day  he  went   to  mass;    his  mistresses  were   ladies  of 

VOL.    I.  7 


98  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

rank;  he  never  passed  any  woman  of  any  degree  without 
a  courteous  salutation ;  he  exacted  and  observed  every  eti- 
quette. He  never  appeared  except  to  dazzle  or  impress;  he 
was  the  histrionic  king  to  perfection  ;  and  to  this  day  he 
stalks  across  the  historic  scene  in  his  favorite  character  of  the 
"  Grand  Monarque,"  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  many  spec- 
tators. 

The  regent,  on  the  contrary,  was  most  harshly  judged. 
Even  his  doting  fondness  for  his  daughter,  the  Duchess  of 
Berri,  received  from  the  lying  scribblers  of  the  time  the 
worst  conceivable  interpretation,  and  a  hundred  epigrams 
insinuated  that  he  had  destroyed  by  poison  the  many  lives 
that  had  till  lately  interposed  between  himself  and  the  su- 
preme power.  There  never  lived  a  man  less  capable  than 
he  of  such  enormities ;  but  accusations  of  that  nature  were 
the  inevitable  penalty  of  a  disregard  of  appearances  in  so 
conspicuous  a  personage,  and  there  were  powerful  individuals 
interested  in  making  the  regent  odious. 

Among  the  scurrilous  things  circulating  from  hand  to  hand 
in  Paris,  in  the  spring  of  1717,  was  an  inscription,  in  school- 
boy Latin,  of  the  following  purport :  — 

A    BOY    REIGNING  ,' 
A   MAN   NOTORIOUS    FOR   POISONING3 

AND    INCESTS  ADMINISTERING  ; 

COUNCILS    IGNORANT    AND    UNSTABLE  ; 

RELIGION    MORE    UNSTABLE  ; 

THE    TREASURY    EMPTY ; 

PUBLIC    FAITH    VIOLATED; 

INFURIATE    WRONG    TRIUMPHANT  ; 

DANGER    OF    GENERAL    SEDITION    IMMINENT  ; 

THE    COUNTRY    SACRIFICED 

TO    THE    HOPE    OF   A    CROWN; 

AN    INHERITANCE    BASELY   ANTICIPATED; 

FRANCE   ABOUT    TO    PERISH. 

This  inscription  was  probably  appended  to  a  dravring  of 
some  kind,  —  a  weeping  figure  of  France,  perhaps,  or  of  a 
monumental  structure.  Under  a  paternal  government  nothing 
of  this  nature  can  be  too  trifling  for  official  notice,  and,  accord- 
ingly, the  "  Puero  Regnante,"  as  the  inscription  was  called  from 
its  opening  words,  was  considered  by  the  ministry,  as  well  as 
eagerly  scanned  and  circulated  in  society. 


IN   THE  BASTILLE.  99 

Anotlier  piece  had  a  much  wider  circulation,  and  made  its 
way  even  into  the  provinces.  The  French  know  better  than 
any  other  people  how  to  catch  the  attention  of  readers  languid 
from  a  satiety  of  sweets;  and,  among  their  other  devices,  there 
is  one  of  beginning  every  verse  or  stanza  of  a  poem  with  the 
same  word  or  words.  This  piece  was  so  arranged,  nearly 
every  line  beginning  with  J'ai  vu,  "  I  have  seen  ; "  and  hence 
the  poem  was  commonly  called  the  "  I-have-seens."  These 
are  specimen  sentences,  from  which  the  reader  will  perceive 
that  the  poem  was  written  by  a  Jansenist :  — 

"  I  have  seen  the  Bastille  and  a  thousand  other  prisous  filled  with 
brave  citizens,  faithful  subjects. 

^^  I  have  seen  the  people  wretched  under  a  rigorous  servitude. 

"  1  have  seen  the  soldiery  perishing  of  hunger,  thirst,  indignation, 
and  rage. 

^^  I  have  seen  a  devil  in  the  guise  of  a  woman  [Maintenon]  ruling 
the  kingdom,  sacrificing  her  God,  her  faith,  her  soul,  to  seduce  the 
spirit  of  a  too  credulous  king. 

"  I  have  seen  the  altar  polluted. 

"  I  have  seen  Port  Royal  demolished. 

^^  I  have  seen  the  blackest  of  all  possible  acts,  which  the  waters  of 
the  entire  ocean  could  not  purge,  and  which  remote  posterity  will 
scarcely  be  able  to  believe,  —  bodies  stamped  with  the  seal  of  im- 
mortality removed  by  profane  and  sacrilegious  hands  from  that  sojourn 
of  gracious  men.  Port  Royal. 

'■^  I  have  seen  the  prelacy  sold  or  made  the  reward  of  imposture. 

'■'■  I  have  seen  nonentities  raised  to  the  highest  rank. 

"  I  have  seen  —  and  this  includes  all  —  the  Jesuit  adored. 

"  I  have  seen  these  evils  during  the  fatal  reign  of  a  prince  whom 
formerly  the  wrath  of  Heaven  accorded  to  our  ardent  desires. 

"  I  have  seen  these  evils,  and  I  am  not  twenty  years  old." 

This  poem  was  written  by  A.  L.  le  Brun,  the  author  of  the 
words  of  a  long-forgotten  opera  and  other  hack  work  of  that 
day.  It  had  been  circulating  for  some  months,  and  as  yet 
the  detectives  of  the  police  had  not  discovered  the  writer. 
They  were  equally  at  fault  in  their  chase  after  the  author  of 
the  "  Puero  Regnante."  But  every  knowing  finger  in  Paris 
pointed  to  Arouet  as  the  probable  author  of  both  these  effu- 
sions, and  certainly  of  the  "  I-have-seens."  Had  he  not  been 
exiled  last  year  for  something  of  the  kind  ?  Was  he  not  liv- 
ing, after  his  return  from  exile,  in  furnished  lodgings,  and  not 


100  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

at  his  father's  house  ?  Did  he  not  frequent  the  apartments 
and  the  chateaux  of  the  disaffected  ?  And  was  he  not  notori- 
ous for  satire?  True,  he  was  nearly  twenty-three  years  old, 
instead  of  not  twenty;  but  few  people  knew  his  age,  and  ho 
was  supposed  to  be  imprudent  enough  for  much  less  than 
twenty. 

In  vain  he  denied  being  the  author  of  the  "  I-have-seens," 
which  was  running:  in  his  name  before  he  had  so  much  as 
heard  of  it.  As  he  was  passing  through  a  small  country  town, 
—  probably  on  his  return  from  a  visit  to  Saint-Ange,  in  the 
spring  of  1717,  —  the  literary  people  of  the  place  insisted  on 
his  reciting  to  them  this  poem,  which  they  said  was  a  master- 
piece. "  It  was  useless,"  he  records,  "  for  me  to  assert  that  I 
was  not  the  author,  and  that  the  piece  was  miserable.  They 
would  not  believe  me,  but  admired  my  reticence ;  and  I  thus 
gained  among  them,  without  thinking  of  it,  the  reputation  of 
a  great  poet  and  a  very  modest  man." 

Pursuing  his  journey,  he  reached  his  abode  in  Paris,  where 
business  of  the  utmost  importance  awaited  him.  His  "  GEdipe  " 
had  been  accepted  at  the  theatre !  It  was  about  to  be  put  into 
rehearsal ;  the  coffee-houses  were  expecting  it ;  great  lords  and 
ladies  were  interested  in  its  production.  Soon  after  his  arrival 
he  had  a  visit  from  one  of  those  gentlemen,  much  employed 
by  the  regent,  who  were  then  called  spies,  but  to  whom  we 
now  apply  the  politer  word,  detectives.  This  individual,  Beau- 
regard by  name,  a  captain  in  the  French  army,  was  a  coffee- 
house acquaintance  of  the  poet.  Those  were  the  halcyon  days 
of  the  coffee-house  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel,  —  the  days 
when  Mr.  Addison  held  court  at  Button's,  and  Fontenelle  was 
the  oracle  at  Laurent's.  The  regent  kept  spies  frequenting 
those  haunts,  and  so  Captain  Beauregard  obtained  the  right  to 
drop  in  upon  Arouet,  at  the  Green  Basket,  on  the  Island,  Rue 
de  la  Calandre,  near  Notre  Dame.  Beauregard's  official  re- 
port of  the  conversation  has  been  preserved,  but  it  does  not 
read  like  truth :  — 

Arouet  (lounging  on  a  sofa).  —  "  Anything  new  ?  " 
Beauregard.  —  "A  number  of  things  have  appeared  against  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  and  the  Duchess  of  Berri." 

Arouet.  —  "  Are  any  of  them  considered  good  ?  " 
Beauregard.  —  "  There  is  thought  to  be  much  wit  in  them,  and 


IN  THE  BASTILLE.  101 

they  are  all  laid  to  you.  For  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  it ;  it  is  im- 
possible to  write  such  things  at  your  age." 

Akouet.  —  "  You  are  mistaken  in  supposing  that  I  am  not  the  au- 
thor of  the  works  that  have  appeared  during  my  absence.  I  sent  all 
my  things  to  M.  le  Blanc  ;  and,  to  put  the  Duke  of  Orleans  off  the 
scent,  I  went  into  the  countiy  during  the  carnival,  and  stayed  two 
months  with  M.  de  Caumartin,  who  saw  those  writings  first ;  and  after- 
wards I  sent  them  to  Paris.  Since  I  cannot  get  my  revenge  upon 
the  Duke  of  Orleans  in  a  certain  way,  I  will  not  spare  him  in  my 
satires." 

Beauregard.  —  "  Why,  what  has  the  Duke  of  Orleans  done  to 
you?" 

Arouet  (springing  to  his  feet  in  a  rage).  —  "  What  !  You  don't 

know  what  that  b did  to  me  ?     He  exiled  me  because  I  let  the 

public  know  that  that  Messalina  of  a  daughter  of  his  was  —  no  better 
than  she  should  be." 

Tlie  interview  here  ended  ;  but,  the  next  day,  the  spy  called 
again  at  the  Green  Basket,  and  found,  sitting  with  the  poet, 
the  Count  d'Argental,  who  was  to  remain  his  devoted  friend 
for  sixty  years.  The  spy  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  copy  of 
the  "  Puero  Regnante." 

Arouet. —  "What  have  you  got  that  's  curious  ?"  (Recognizing 
the  inscription.)  "  As  to  tliat,  I  wrote  it  at  M.  de  Caumartin's,  but 
a  good  while  before  I  left." 

Two  days  after,  the  assiduous  spy  called  once  more,  and 
again  found  M.  d'Argental  with  the  poet. 

Beauregard.  —  "  How  is  this,  my  dear  friend  ?  You  boast  of 
having  written  the  '  Puero  Regnante,'  and  yet  1  have  just  heard,  from 
very  good  authority,  that  it  was  written  by  a  Jesuit  professor." 

Arouet.  —  "  It  is  of  no  consequence  to  me  whether  you  believe 
me  or  not.  Those  Jesuits  are  like  the  jay  in  the  fable  :  they  borrow 
the  peacock's  feathers  with  which  to  decorate  themselves." 

The  spy  further  reported  him  as  saying  everywhere  in  Paris 
that  the  Duchess  of  Berri  was  gone  to  a  hunting  lodge  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne  to  be  confined,  and  as  uttering  a  "  quantity 
of  other  things  unfit  to  be  recorded."  ^ 

If  the  young  man  made  these  avowals,  which  is  doubtful, 
he  must  have  done  so  by  way  of  burlesque.  He  probably 
did  not  write  the  "  Puero  Regnante."  If  he  wrote  it,  it  is 
1  La  Jeunesse  de  Voltaire,  page  129. 


102  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  only  composition  in  the  hundred  volumes  of  his  works  in 
which  no  trace  of  the  Voltairian  quality  can  be  discerned. 
But  the  spy's  report  of  the  conversations  served  as  a  basis  to 
the  subsequent  proceedings.  Scurrilous  compositions  fluttered 
in  every  drawing-room.  The  regent  knew  that  the  "court"  of 
the  Duchess  du  Maine  was  the  source  of  much  of  this  hostile 
literature,  and  it  was  believed  that  Arouet  was  "  the  soul  of 
that  society."  The  duchess  herself  was  the  soul  of  it,  and 
there  is  no  reason  to  think  that  Arouet  was  trusted  or  em- 
ployed by  her  in  her  political  schemes.  We  know,  however, 
that  those  who  administer  paternal  governments  are  content 
with  slight  evidence  when  a  victim  is  very  much  wanted  and 
their  spies  are  off  the  true  scent. 

There  is  a  tradition  that  he  had  a  warning  of  what  was  in 
store  for  him.     On  an  afternoon  in  May  he  was  strolling  in 
the  gardens  of  the  Palais-Rojal,  when  some  one   summoned 
him  to  the  presence  of  the  regent,  who  was  also  walking  there. 
"Monsieur  Arouet,"  said  the  regent,  "I  bet  I  will  make 
you  see  something  you  have  never  seen  !  " 
"Indeed,  and  what  is  it,  Monseigneur?  " 
"  The  Bastille,"  replied  the  regent. 

"  Ah,  Monseigneur,"  said  the  poet,  "  I  consider  it  seen  !  " 
It  may  have  been  on  this  very  Friday,  May  14th,  that  he 
saw  the  Czar  Peter  of  Russia,  then  on  one  of  his  tours  for  im- 
provement.    The  Czar  had  been  a  week  in  Paris,  hurrying 
from  shop  to  shop,  from  lion  to  lion,  himself  the  lion  of  the 
year  to  the  people  of  Paris.    This  was  one  of  his  busiest  days : 
at  six  in  the  morning  in  the  grand  gallery  of  the  Tuileries, 
examining  plans  and  maps ;  then  to  the  Louvre  ;  next  to  the 
garden  of  the  Tuileries,  from  which  all  other  visitors  were  ex- 
pelled, and  where  he  lingered  to  admire  a  swinging  bridge ; 
dinner  at  eleven  ;  after  dinner  a  visit  to  Madame  at  the  Palais- 
Royal  ;  then  to  the  opera  with  the  regent,  where  he  sat  in 
the  grand  box  and  called  for  beer,  and  the  regent  gave  him 
the  beverage  with  his  own  hands ;  finally,  to  supper  with  the 
Duke  de  Villars  and  other  military  men.     Our  poet  saw  the 
Czar  as  he  was  going  the  rounds  of  the  shops  ;  "neither  of 
us,"   as  he   wrote   forty  years  later,   "then   thinking  that  I 
Bhould  one  day  be  his  historian." 

The  next  morning,  Saturday,  May  16th,  Arouet,  not  so  early 


I 


IN  THE  BASTILLE.  103 

a  riser  as  the  Czar,  was  roused  from  sleep  at  his  lodgings, 
at  the  sign  of  the  Green  Basket,  by  a  strange  noise  on  the 
stairs.  Arrests  upon  lettres  de  cachet  were  made  with  the 
utmost  suavity  of  manner,  but  with  a  considerable  show  of 
force  ;  and  half  a  dozen  men  cannot  ascend  a  staircase  with- 
out waking  a  sleeping  poet.  Upon  opening  his  eyes  he  saw 
the  crowd  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  one  of  whom  drew  near, 
touched  him  upon  the  shoulder  with  a  white  wand,  and  with 
all  possible  politeness  explained  their  business  ;  perhaps  hand- 
ing him  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  it  was  briefly  stated  :  — 

"  The  intention  of  His  Royal  Highness  is  that  the  Sieur 
Arouet  be  arrested  and  conducted  to  the  Bastille." 

He  was  allowed,  it  seems,  to  go  to  his  dressing-room,  and, 
while  he  and  his  valet  were  getting  on  their  clothes,  one  of 
the  officers  sealed  up  his  papers,  and  another  took  an  inven- 
tory of  his  effects.  It  so  chanced  that  the  spy  Beauregard, 
who  had  given  the  information  upon  which  the  arrest  was 
made,  "  found  himself  present "  on  this  occasion,  also,  and  had 
further  conversation  with  the  unsuspecting  victim. 

"  Why  are  you  arrested?"  he  asked. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  the  prisoner  replied. 

"  My  opinion  is,"  said  the  spy,  "  that  your  writings  are  the 
cause." 

"  There  are  no  proofs  that  I  have  written  anything,  for  I 
have  never  confided  my  writings  to  any  but  true  friends." 

"  Is  there  nothing  in  these  papers  to  convict  you  ?  " 

"No;  for,  luckily,  the  exempt  did  not  get  hold  of  the  pair 
of  breeches  in  which  there  were  some  verses  and  sonars.  I 
seized  an  opportunity,  while  I  was  dressing,  to  throw  them 
where  —  it  won't  be  easy  to  find  them." 

So  reports  the  spy,  and  it  is  possible  some  conversation  re- 
sembling this  occurred.  The  place  indicated  was  searched,  to 
the  extreme  discomfiture  of  the  inmates  of  the  Green  Basket, 
and  to  the  spoiling  of  several  barrels  of  beer  in  its  cellar ;  but 
no  scrap  of  offensive  writing  was  found.  He  was  permitted 
to  take  with  him  no  article  whatever  except  the  clothes  he 
wore  ;  but  before  leaving  he  managed  to  dash  upon  paper  and 
send  (probably  by  his  valet)  a  short  note  to  the  Duke  of  Sully, 
who  had  so  happily  alleviated  his  late  exile  :  — 

"  M.  de  Basin,  lieutenant  of  the  short  robe,  is  here  to  arrest 


104  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

me  tliis  morning.  I  can  tell  you  nothing  more  about  it.  1 
know  not  wluit  I  am  accused  of.  My  innocence  assures  me  of 
your  protection.  I  shall  be  too  happy  if  you  do  me  the  honor 
to  accord  it  to  me." 

That  done,  he  was  conducted  down-stairs  to  the  street, 
assisted  into  a  close  carriage,  the  lieutenant  following,  and 
driven  slowly  away,  a  file  of  men  walking  on  each  side  of  the 
vehicle,  and  the  passers-by  looking  on  with  serious  counte- 
nances. By  the  tortuous  streets  of  old  Paris  the  cortege  must 
have  gone  a  mile  and  a  half  before  it  reached  the  Bastille,  and 
the  prisoner  could  see  through  the  blinds  of  the  coach  the  an- 
cient fortress  rising  gloomy  and  vast  from  the  banks  of  the 
Seine. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?"  cries  the  neai'est  sentinel. 

"  Command  of  the  king,"  replies  the  sergeant  of  the  escort. 

An  officer  of  the  guard  appears,  to  whom  the  lettre  de  cachet 
is  shown  ;  upon  seeing  which  he  strikes  a  bell  to  summon 
the  officials  of  the  chateau,  and  permits  the  whole  cortege  to 
enter  the  first  inclosure.  The  guard  turns  out ;  the  officials 
stand  reacl}^ ;  the  coach  comes  to  a  stand.  The  lieutenant  of 
the  king  opens  the  door  of  the  carriage.  Ever}'  soldier  covers 
his  face  w'ith  his  hat,  so  as  not  to  see  the  prisoner,  and  if  by 
chance  there  is  some  one  in  the  court  who  has  no  hat  on  he 
turns  his  back,  or  instantly  withdraws.  The  prisoner  alights. 
He  is  the  king's  guest ;  this  is  one  of  the  royal  chateaux  ;  and 
he  is  conducted  with  the  utmost  respect  to  the  office  of  the 
governor,  who  gives  a  receipt  to  the  commander  of  the  escort, 
and  presents  him  to  officers  of  his  own.  They  conduct  the 
prisoner  into  the  next  room,  where  he  is  respectfully  but  thor- 
oughly searched,  deprived  of  every  article  he  possesses  which 
does  not  strictly  belong  to  his  apparel,  and  an  inventory  is 
taken. 

He  was  obliged,  as  we  haA^e  seen,  to  surrender  at  least  one 
letter  from  his  Olimpe,  then  an  unhappy  Baroness  de  Win- 
terfield  ;  he  a  less  unhappy  prisoner  of  state.  A  good  pocket- 
ful of  money  was  found  upon  him:  "six  louis  of  gold"  and 
a  dozen  or  more  of  other  coins,  besides  "  an  eye-glass,  a  pair 
of  scissors,  a  bunch  of  keys,  tablets,  and  some  papers."  After 
he  has  signed  the  inventory,  he  is  taken  back  to  the  governor's 
room,  where  he  is  formally  handed  over  to  the  officers  of  the 
Bastille. 


IN  THE  BASTILLE.  105 

The  draw-bridge  falls  ;  he  is  led  aci'oss  it ;  he  enters  the 
grand  inclosure  ;  the  gate  closes  ;  he  is  in  the  Bastille.  Un- 
der-officers  show  him  to  an  eight-sided  room  in  one  of  the 
towers,  shut  the  door  upon  him,  turn  the  huge  key,  drive 
home  the  bolts,  and  leave  him  to  his  reflections,  with  ten  feet 
of  solid  and  ancient  masonry  between  him  and  the  bright 
May-day  w^orld  of  Paris. ^ 

They  gave  him  a  pretty  good  room  ;  not  one  of  the  suites 
reserved  for  princes  and  favorites,  but  a  room  of  fair  size,  in 
the  lower  story  of  one  of  the  towers,  which  had  been  tenanted 
by  a  Duke  of  Montmorenci,  by  a  Biron,  by  a  Bassompierre, 
and  in  which  De  Saci  had  translated  the  Bible.  From  this 
time  onward,  as  long  as  the  Bastille  stood,  it  was  shown  to 
visitors  as  Voltaire's  room.  It  had  a  fire-place,  and  the  occu- 
pant could  add  anything  to  the  scanty  furniture  that  he 
chose.  He  was  the  king's  guest ;  the  king  maintained  him, 
but  if  a  guest  had  a  fancy  for  particular  articles  of  furniture, 
there  was  a  dealer  who  had  bought  at  a  high  price  the  privi- 
lege of  supplying  them  at  a  high  price. 

The  king  gave  his  guests  an  excellent  table ;  nay,  a  lux- 
urious one.  Marmontel's  treatment,  so  amusingly  described 
in  his  Memoirs,  was  that  of  many  prisoners  during  the  last 
century  of  the  Bastille's  reign.  It  was  cold  when  Marmontel 
entered:  the  valets  of  the  chateau  made  him  a  blazing  fire  and 
brought  him  plenty  of  wood.  He  objected  to  the  mattresses  : 
they  were  changed.  A  very  good  Friday  dinner  was  served, 
with  a  bottle  of  tolerable  wine,  and,  after  he  had  eaten  it,  he 
was  informed  that  it  was  meant  for  his  servant.  His  own  din- 
ner followed  :  "  Pyramids  of  new  dishes,  fine  linen,  beautiful 
porcelain,  silver  spoon  and  fork,  an  excellent  soup,  a  slice  of 
juicy  beef,  the  leg  of  a  broiled  capon  swimming  in  its  gravy, 
a  little  dish  of  fried  artichokes,  one  of  spinach,  a  very  fine 
pear,  some  grapes,  a  bottle  of  old  Burgund}^  and  some  of 
the  best  Mocha  coffee."  His  servant,  on  seeing  this  banquet, 
said,  "  Monsieur,  as  you  have  just  eaten  my  dinner,  allow  me 
in  my  turn  to  eat  yours."  "It  is  but  just,"  replied  his  master, 
and  the  valet  entered  upon  the  work. 

We  may  conclude,  therefore,  that  Ai'ouet  did  not  have  to 

1  Archives  de  la  Bastille.    Par  Fran9ois  Ravaissou,     Introduction,  page  xv. 
Paris,     18G6. 


106  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

wait  long  for  bis  breakfast  on  tbe  morning  of  bis  arrest,  and 
that  he  liad  on  that  day,  and  every  day,  whatever  was  requi- 
site for  his  bodily  comfort.  Indeed,  we  know  that  he  dined 
sometimes  with  the  governor.  Almost  every  literary  man  of 
note  who  lived  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.  was  at  least  once  a 
prisoner  in  the  Bastille,  and  they  agree  in  describing  it  as  the 
least  painful  of  prisons.  There  were  but  forty-two  rooms  in 
the  structure,  and  many  of  them  were  usually  vacant.  There 
was  much  familiar  intercourse  between  the  prisoners  and  the 
ofl&cers  of  the  chateau,  and  most  of  the  prisoners,  as  it  seems, 
received  visitors  in  their  rooms,  and  were  allowed  to  keep  a 
private  store  of  wine  and  dainties  for  the  entertainment  of 
guests.  They  could  send  out  for  books,  published  with  per- 
mission. There  was  a  billiard-room,  a  bowling-alley,  and  a 
large  court-yard  for  exercise  and  conversation,  to  all  of  which 
most  of  the  prisoners  had  some  daily  access.  Persons  accused 
of  serious  crime,  or  who  had  given  offense  to  a  favorite  or  a 
mistress,  were  treated  with  more  severity ;  were  compelled  to 
take  their  exercise  alone,  under  the  eye  of  a  sentinel ;  were 
confined  to  their  rooms,  and  could  not  receive  visitors.  For 
contumacious  or  disorderly  inmates  there  were  dungeons,  damp 
and  dark,  at  the  bottom  of  each  of  the  eight  towers;  but 
these  were  seldom  used,  and  never  except  for  short  periods. 
The  form  of  a  lettre  de  cachet  was  in  harmony  with  the  mild 
regimen  of  the  chateau.  A  person  of  rank  was  invited  thus 
to  the  king's  hospitality  : 

"My  Cousin:  As  I  am  by  no  means  satisfied  with  your 
conduct,  I  send  you  this  letter  to  inform  you  of  my  intention, 
which  is  that,  as  soon  as  you  receive  this,  you  shall  proceed 
to  my  chateau  of  the  Bastille,  there  to  remain  till  you  have 
my  further  orders.  On  which,  my  cousin,  I  pray  God  to  have 
you  in  his  holy  keeping." 

M.  Delort,  among  the  papers  discovered  by  him  in  "grocers* 
shops  and  second-hand  bookstores,"  found  what  appears  to  be 
the  original  entry  on  the  secret  books  of  the  Bastille  of  Arouet's 
arrest  and  its  cause :  — 

"  FranQois-Marie  Arouet,  without  profession,  son  of  the  Sieur  Ar- 
ouet,  payer  of  the  Chamber  of  Accounts,  entered  the  Bastille  May 
17,  1717,  accused  of  having  composed  some  pieces  of  poetry  and  inso- 
lent verses  agamst  Monsieur  the  Regent  and  ]\Iadame  the  Duchess  of 


J 


IN  THE  BASTILLE.  107 

Berri ;  among  others  a  piece  which  has  for  inscription  '  Puero  Reg- 
nante.'  Accused  also  of  having  said  that,  since  he  could  not  revenge 
himself  upon  Monsieur  the  Duke  of  Orleans  in  a  certain  vr&j,  he 
would  not  spare  him  in  his  satires  ;  upon  which,  some  one  having 
asked  him  what  His  Royal  Highness  had  done  to  him,  he  rose  in  a 
rage,  and  replied,  '  What !  You  do  not  know  what  that  B.  has  done 
to  me?  He  exiled  me  because  I  made  the  public  see  that  his  Mes- 
salina  of  a  daughter  was  no  better  than  she  should  be.'  Signed, 
M.  d'Argenson  ;  Deschamps,  clerk;  Ysabeau,  commissioner;  Basin, 
exempt  of  the  short  robe."  ^ 

The  bird  is  literally  caged  at   last.     His  cage  is  of  eight 
stone  sides  and  a  vaulted  roof,  furnished  with  a  plain  table, 
two  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  a  narrow  bed.     Plis  family,  as  | 
we  are  told  by  Duvernet,  was  in  desolation. 

"  I  foresaw  clearly  enough,"  cried  his  much-enduring  father, 
"  that  his  idleness  would  lead  to  some  disgrace.  Why  did  he 
not  go  into  a  profession  ?  " 

His  Jansenist  of  a  brother  probably  added  a  hearty  served- 
him-riglit  to  his  father's  I-told-you-so.  The  old  Marquis  de 
Dangeau  made  another  entry  in  his  diary  concerning  this 
young  man  :  "  Arouet  has  been  put  into  the  Bastille.  He  is  a 
young  poet  accused  of  writing  very  imprudent  verses.  He  was 
exiled  some  months  ago.  He  seems  incorrigible."  St.  Simon 
apologizes  to  himself  for  recording  so  trivial  a  circumstance : 
"  I  should  not  mention  here  that  Arouet  was  put  into  tlie  Bas- 
tille for  writins:  some  most  audacious  verses,  but  for  the  celeb- 
rity  which  his  poems,  his  adventures,  and  the  caprice  of  the 
public  have  given  him  since.  He  is  the  son  of  my  father's 
notary,  whom  I  have  often  seen  bringing  papers  to  sign.  He 
could  never  do  anything  with  that  libertine  son  of  bis,  whose 
very  libertinage  made  his  fortune  at  last  under  the  name  of 
Voltaire,  which  he  assumed  to  hide  his  own."  Thus  Polo- 
nius  upon  this  plebeian  Laertes. 

Meanwhile,  Laertes,  as  usual  with  him  in  all  circumstances, 
was  making  himself  as  comfortable  as  possible.  He  was  ar- 
rested on  Saturday  morning.  On  Thursday  following  we  find 
him  signing  a  receipt  for  certain  articles  needful  to  complete 
the  equipment  of  a  young  gentleman  and  scholar,  namely,  "  two 
volumes  of  Homer,  Latin-Greek,  two  Lidia  handkerchiefs,  a 
1  2  Histoire  de  la  Detention  des  Philosophes,  24. 


^ 


108  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

little  cap,  t-wo  cravats,  a  night-cap,  a  small  bottle  of  essence  of 
cloves."  Other  effects  had  doubtless  preceded  this  small  con- 
voy, and  lie  could  send  for  more  if  the  articles  were  not  pro- 
hibited. It  is  not  certain  that  he  was  the  sole  occupant  of  his 
room,  for  others  of  the  Duchess  du  Maine's  partisans  were  ar- 
rested about  the  same  time,  and  the  chateau  may  have  been 
overfull.  Be  that  as  it  may,  there  he  was,  with  his  Homer,  his 
night-cap,  and  his  small  bottle  of  essence  of  cloves,  a  prisoner 
in  one  of  the  massive  towers  of  the  old  Bastille,  with  a  deep 
slit  for  a  window,  througb  which  neither  earth  nor  sky  could 
be  seen. 


CHAPTER  XITI. 

ELEVEN  MONTHS  A  PRISONER. 

Was  he,  as  tradition  reports,  denied  pen,  ink,  and  paper  in 
the  Bastille  ?  We  have  no  letter  of  his  written  in  that  royal 
chateau,  nor  any  other  composition  certainly  known  to  have  been 
put  on  paper  there.  At  first,  and  perhaps  for  some  weeks, 
he  may  have  had  no  writing  materials,  the  improper  use  of 
which  was  the  offense  charged  against  him.  Diderot  was 
refused  them  in  later  years;  but  he  made  a  passable  ink  by 
scraping  slate  into  wine,  using  a  broken  wine-glass  as  an 
inkstand,  cutting  his  quill  tooth-picks  into  pens,  and  writing 
on  blank  pages,  as  well  as  between  the  lines  of  wide-printed 
books.  What  a  Diderot  did  an  Arouet  could  do.  He 
probably  wrote  in  the  Bastille ;  and  probably  enjoyed,  during 
the  latter  part  of  his  time,  tolerable  facilities  both  for  study 
and  composition. 

When  first  he  found  himself  immured  in  his  eight-sided 
room,  all  the  brightness  of  the  world  shut  out,  he  threw 
himself  (as  Duvernet  reports  from  the  lips  of  Thieriot)  upon 
his  epic  poem,  "  La  Henriade,"  tumultuously  planned  at  the 
more  agreeable  chateau  of  Saint-Ange.  He  began  to  com- 
pose in  his  mind,  without  waiting  for  pen  and  paper,  and  soon 
became,  as  usual  with  him,  wholly  possessed  by  his  subject. 
Duvernet  declares  that  the  second  canto,  in  which  Henry  of 
Navarre  relates  to  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England  the  Massa- 
cres of  St.  Bartholomew,  came  to  the  captive  in  a  dream, 
perfect  and  entire,  just  as  it  now  stands  in  the  work,  —  the 
only  canto  which  he  never  altered  nor  corrected.  Honest 
Wagnicre,  his  last  amanuensis,  asserts  the  same  thing :  "  He 
told  me  that  he  composed  the  second  canto  of  'La  Henriade' 
in  his  sleep,  that  he  retained  it  in  his  memory,  and  never  found 
anything  to  change  in  it."  ^ 

1  1  Me'moires  sur  Voltaire,  par  Longchamp  et  "Wagnicre,  page  22. 


110  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Frederic  of  Prussia  probably  heard  the  poet  relate  some- 
thing similar,  but  in  the  funeral  oration  which  he  pronounced 
upon  Voltaire  he  does  not  repeat  the  marvel.  "  Could  you, 
gentlemen,"  said  the  king,  "  have  imagined  that  it  was  at  the 
Bastille  that  our  young  bard  composed  the  first  two  books  of 
his  '  Henriade  '  ?  Though  strange,  this  is  true.  His  prison 
became  his  Parnassus,  to  which  the  Muses  resorted.  It  is 
equally  true  that  the  second  book  is  now  what  it  appeared  iu 
this  first  copy.  Not  having  paper  or  ink,  he  learned  the 
verses  by  rote,  and  retained  them  in  his  memory."  ^ 

Many  writers  have  had  similar  experiences,  and  will  there- 
fore be  able  to  believe  a  portion  of  this  prodigy.  In  the 
early  days  of  his  incarceration,  intensely  absorbed  in  the  at- 
tempt to  go  on  with  his  poem  without  the  means  of  writing, 
his  health  at  low  tide  and  his  rest  imperfect,  he  may  have 
really  dreamed  out  the  narrative  of  St.  Bartholomew,  —  a 
story,  as  he  well  says,  which  makes  "  the  pen  drop  from  the 
hand." 
f  Some  substitute  for  pen  and  ink  coming,  then,  to  alleviate 
the  tedium  of  his  days,  the  eleven  months  that  he  passed. 
'  within  the  walls  of  this  old  fortress  were  not  the  least  happy 
tof  his  life,  and  were  among  the  most  profitable.  How  incom- 
plete and  misleading  his  education  hitherto  !  This  long  seclu- 
sion gave  him  time  to  reflect,  as  well  as  labor.  He  discerned, 
as  he  afterwards  said,  that  in  France  a  man  is  born  either 
hammer  or  anvil.  Basking  in  the  smiles  of  a  Duchess  du 
Maine,  or  sitting  down  to  a  supper  of  princes,  he  may  have 
been  weak  lenough  to  fancy  himself  hammer  ;  but,  pacing  his 
stone  octagonal  in  the  Bastille,  it  was  but  too  evident  that  he 
was  nothing  but  anvil.  If  he  hardened  himself  to  bear  in- 
evitable blows,  it  was  not  his  intention  to  remain  anvil  any 
longer  than  he  must.  "  I  patiently  endured,"  he  wrote,  a 
year  or  two  later,  "  the  rigor  of  an  unjust  imprisonment ;  but 
I  knew  how  to  draw  from  my  misfortune  some  advantage :  I 
learned  to  harden  myself  against  adversity,  and  I  found  in 
myself  a  fortitude  not  to  be  expected  from  the  lightness  and 
the  errors  of  my  youth."  ^ 

1  13  Posthumous  "Works  of  Frederic  II.,  King  of  Prussia,  page  492.    London, 
1789. 

2  Epitre  a  M.  de  Genonville.     17  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  49. 


\j  ELEA^EN   MONTHS   A  PRISOXER.  Ill 

His  chief  gain  was  intellectual.  Besides  working  upon  the 
poem  with  all  his  own  fiery  ardor,  he  appears  to  have  read  and 
considered  some  important  books,  and  he  may  have  met  in 
the  chateau  men  of  more  mature  character  than  himself.  In 
his  burlesque  romance,  "  Llng^nu,"  he  consigns  the  hero  to 
the  Bastille,  and  gives  him  an  experience  there  which  may 
have  been  drawn  in  part  from  his  own  recollections.  L'Ingenu 
is  a  voung  Frenchman  reared  among  the  Hurons  of  Lake 
Ontario,  who  comes  to  France  at  maturity,  ignorant  of  the 
usao-es  of  civilization,  and  wholly  "  unformed."     In  the  Bas- 

O  **  ••11 

tille  he  meets  a  thoughtful  and  learned  Jansenist,  with  whom 
he  daily  converses  upon  the  highest  themes.  "  The  old  man 
knew  much,  and  the  young  man  wished  to  learn  much."  He 
studied  geometry  with  passion,  read  works  upon  physical 
science,  such  as  there  were  then  in  France,  and  took  up  Male- 
branche's  treatise  upon  the  "  Search  after  Truth,"  a  work 
which  suggested  much  that  Voltaire  applied.  "  What !  " 
exclaims  the  Huron,  "  we  are  deceived  to  such  a  point  by 
our  imagination  and  our  senses  !  "  But  when  the  young  man 
had  finished  the  work,  he  concluded  that  it  was  easier  to 
destroy  than  to  construct,  and  that  Malebranche  had  torn 
down  with  his  reason,  and  built  up  with  his  imagination 
and  his  prejudices.  At  last,  the  aged  Jansenist  asks  him 
what  he  thinks  of  the  soul,  and  of  the  great  question  of 
grace  and  free-will  which  had  tormented  France  so  long. 
The  young  man  from  Lake  Ontario  answered  this  question 
precisely  as  Voltaire  always  answered  it :  — 

''  I  think  nothing.  If  I  have  a  thought  upon  it,  it  is  that 
we  are  under  the  power  of  the  Eternal  Being,  as  the  stars  are, 
and  the  elements  ;  and  that  he  works  by  general  laws,  and 
not  by  particular  views." 

Then  they  read  history  together,  which  saddened  him  ;  for 
it  was  but  a  record  of  mingled  crime  and  misery.  And  yet 
the  spectacle  of  mighty  Rome,  "  conqueror  and  lawgiver  for 
seven  hundred  years,  through  her  enthusiasm  for  liberty  and 
glory,"  absorbed  and  fired  his  soul.  They  ran  through  the 
dark  and  bloody  history  of  the  church,  not  failing  to  note  the 
words  of  Justinian:  "Truth  shines  by  its  own  light;  human 
minds  are  not  enlightened  by  the  flames  of  the  fagot."  The 
young  man  becomes  the  teacher,  and  the  old  Jansenist,  in  the 


112  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

presence  of  the  sublime  truths  of  science  and  the  sorrowful 
facts  of  history,  discerns,  at  length,  the  puerility  of  all  sec- 
tarian controversies.  Literature,  poetry,  drama,  art,  —  all 
passed  in  review  before  them ;  and  as  the  days,  the  weeks,  the 
months,  rolled  on,  the  young  man  found  the  Bastille  almost  a 
happy  abode. 

Something  of  this  happened  to  our  captive.  He  increased 
his  knowledge  ;  he  exercised  his  powers  ;  he  gathered  himself 
for  new  attempts  ;  and  during  many  long  days  and  silent 
nights  he  repeated  his  canto  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Nothing, 
it  seems,  could  occur  to  this  young  man  which  did  not,  in 
some  way,  deepen  his  sense  of  the  baleful  effect  of  intoler- 
ance. 

"  Religion,  raging  with  inhuman  zeal, 
Arms  every  hand,  and  points  the  fatal  steel. 
To  me,  however,  it  will  least  belong 
To  prove  the  Roman  or  Genevan  wrong. 
Whatever  names  divine  the  parties  claim. 
In  craft  and  fury  they  are  both  the  same."  ^ 

He  was,  nevertheless,  in  the  Bastille,  with  a  fine  tragedy 
ready  for  presentation,  and  a  literary  career  dependent  upon 
its  success.  His  friends  outside  were  not  idle.  Le  Brun,  the 
author  of  the  "I-have-seens,"  was  found,  and  he,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  cabinet  minister,  and  "  with  tears  of  contrition  in  his 
eyes,"  confessed  himself  the  author  of  that  harmless  work. 
The  captive  himself  lent  a  helping  hand  by  composing  a  comic 
poem  upon  his  arrest,  which  was  Avell  calculated  to  propitiate 
a  regent  who  made  light  of  the  usages  of  the  church.  The 
Saturday  of  his  arrest  happened  to  be  the  day  of  Pentecost, 
on  which  the  Roman  Catholic  church  celebrates  the  "  descent 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  upon  the  Apostles."  He  used  this  cir- 
cumstance with  an  audacity  that  was  calculated  to  make  the 
regent,  the  grand  prior,  and  both  their  supper-tables  shake 
with  laughter,  and  Jansenists  shiver  with  affright.  He  makes 
his  valet,  who  had  come  home  drunk  the  evening  before,  cry 
out,  on  hearing  the  noise  on  the  stairs  of  the  approaching 
band,  — 

"  Master !  The  Holy  Ghost  is  out  there  !  It  is  he,  and  no 
mistake,  for  I  have  read  in  my  book  that  he  comes  into  peo- 
ple's houses  with  a  thundering  racket !  " 

1  La  Henriade,  cauto  ij. 


ELEVEN  MONTHS   A  PRISONER.  113 

Roused  from  sleep,  the  master  sees  at  the  foot  of  his  bed, 
"not  a  pigeon  nor  a  dove,  the  Holy  Spirit's  tender  and  faith- 
ful bird,  but  twenty  crows,  ravenous  for  their  prey."  The 
whole  poem  is  in  this  taste.  It  calls  to  mind  the  light  audaci- 
ties by  which  Byron,  a  century  later,  rescued  cakes  and  ale 
from  the  ban  of  virtuous  Southey. 

These  measures,  in  the  spring  of  1718,  promised  to  be  suc- 
cessful, and  the  captive  poet  had  hopes  of  looking  again  upon 
the  sky  and  the  gardens  of  the  Palais-Royal.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  he  determined  to  make  an  alteration  in  his  name, 
by  appending  to  it,  after  the  fashion  of  his  country,  a  name 
appertaining  to  the  family  of  his  mother.  He  had  not  suc- 
ceeded well  with  plain  Arouet,  and  he  would  henceforth  court 
fortune  as  Arouet  de  Voltaire.  Arouet  was  then,  apparently, 
pronounced  as  though  it  were  written  Arroi,  an  anomaly  which 
caused  him  to  be  confounded  sometimes  with  a  poet  named 
Roi,  now  forgotten,  but  then  notorious  and  odious  for  low,  sa- 
tirical verse.  Much  ingenuity  has  been  expended  upon  the 
derivation  of  the  word  Voltaire.  A  writer  in  "  Le  Derby,"  a 
French  sporting  paper,  has  the  honor  of  settling  this  unim- 
portant controversy.  While  investigating,  in  1869,  the  pedi- 
gree of  a  French  horse,  he  came  upon  the  records  of  a  family 
named  Voltaire,  and  the  family  proved  to  be  ancestors  of  our 
prisoner's  mother.^  The  gentle  parent,  therefore,  who  gave 
him  his  talent,  supplied  him  also  with  the  name  by  which  that 
talent  became  known. 

Nothing  is  less  unusual  in  France  than  such  changes  as 
these.  Moliere  himself  dropped  the  paternal  name  of  Poque- 
lin ;  and  really  it  is  much  to  be  desired  that  when  a  man  en- 
ters upon  the  work  of  immortalizing  his  name  he  would  be 
considerate  enough  to  provide  himself  with  a  name  fit  to  be 
immortalized,  one  which  posterity  will  take  pleasure  in  pro- 
nouncing. Our  poet  did  not  formally  drop  the  name  of  his 
family.  He  entered  the  Bastille,  May  16,  1717,  Francois- 
Marie  Arouet;  he  came  out  of  the  Bastille,  April  11,  1718, 
Arouet  de  Voltaire.  The  Arouet,  however,  soon  wore  off,  and 
it  finally  appeared  only  in  legal  documents. 

Prisoners  released  from  the  Bastille  were  ordered  into  exile. 
This  prisoner  was  "  relegated  to  the  village  of  Chatenay,  near 

1  Pall  MaU  Budget,  February  26,  1869. 

VOL.    1.  8 


114  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Sceaux,  where  his  father,  who  has  a  country-house  in  the  vil- 
lage, offers  to  retain  him."  To  Chatenay,  accordingly,  he  was 
driven  on  leaving  the  chateau  of  the  Bastille,  and  there  he 
remained.  It  was  not  his  intention  to  take  up  his  abode  at 
that  agreeable  sojourn.  When  he  had  been  at  his  father's 
house  four  days,  he  wrote  to  the  lieutenant  of  police,  thanking 
him  for  having  procured  his  release,  adding,  "  I  think  I  have 
profited  by  my  misfortunes,  and  I  venture  to  assure  you  that 
I  am  as  much  indebted  to  His  Royal  Highness  for  my  impris- 
onment as  for  my  liberation.  I  have  committed  many  faults  : 
but  I  beg  you,  sir,  to  assure  His  Royal  Highness  that  I  am 
neither  such  a  knave  nor  such  a  fool  as  ever  to  have  used  my 
pen  against  him.  I  have  never  spoken  of  that  prince  but  to 
express  my  admiration  for  his  genius." 

To  the  Count  de  Maurepas,  minister  of  the  regent,  May  2d, 
two  weeks  later :  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to  shorten  the  period  of 
my  exile,  nor  for  permission  to  pass  one  hour  in  Paris.  The 
only  favor  I  solicit  is  that  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  assure  His 
Royal  Highness  that  I  am  as  much  obliged  to  hira  for  my  im- 
prisonment as  for  my  liberty,  and  that,  as  I  have  profited  by 
the  one,  I  shall  never  abuse  the  other.  All  appearances  being 
against  me,  I  have  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  regent's 
justice,  and  all  my  life  I  shall  praise  his  clemency.  I  can  as- 
sure you,  as  if  I  had  to  answer  for  it  with  my  head,  that  .  .  . 
I  have  never  even  seen  the  abominable  inscription  attributed 
to  me,  and  had  not  the  least  share  in  composing  any  of  the 
songs  against  the  court." 

To  Count  de  Maurepas  he  wrote  again,  after  an  interval  of 
only  four  days,  but  in  a  very  different  strain.  He  seems  to 
have  discovered,  meanwhile,  the  "perfidy"  of  the  spies  who 
had  denounced  him,  and  to  have  obtained  proofs  of  the  same. 
He  now  implores,  with  all  the  fervor  of  passionate  desire,  per- 
mission to  go  to  Paris  for  two  hours,  that  he  might  speak  to 
the  count  for  a  moment,  and  "  throw  himself  at  the  feet  of 
His  Royal  Highness."  Permission  was  granted,  and  he  came. 
He  had  an  interview  with  the  regent,  and,  as  it  appears,  made 
a  very  favorable  impression  upon  him. 

"  Be  prudent,"  the  prince  is  reported  to  have  said  to  him, 
"  and  I  will  take  care  of  you." 

The   reply  of    the  poet  is  one  of   his  famous  sallies  :  "  I 


ELEVEN  MONTHS  A  PRISONER.  115 

should  find  it  very  good  if  his  majesty  should  be  pleased  hence- 
forth to  charge  himself  with  my  board,  but  I  beg  your  Royal 
Highness  not  to  trouble  yourself  farther  with  my  lodging." 

This  reply  ought  to  have  made  a  livelier  impression  than  it 
did  upon  a  good-natured  regent.  But  this  prince,  self-indul- 
gent Bourbon  as  he  was,  kept  business  and  pleasure  distinct. 
He  never  told  a  state  secret  to  a  mistress,  and  he  did  not  allow 
his  witty  exile  to  live  in  Paris  until  six  months  after  his  re- 
lease from  the  Bastille.  There  was,  indeed,  little  obstacle  to 
his  occasional  visits,  but^jt^was  not  untilthe  12th  of  October, 
1718,  that  permission  was  formally  accorded  to  "  le  Sieur 
Arouet  de  Voltaire  to  come  to  Paris  whenever  he  pleases." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"CEDIPE"   PERFORMED. 

His  tragedy  is  at  last  in  rehearsal  at  the  Theatre-Francais. 
That  "  CEdipe,"  which  he  had  begun  five  years  before,  and 
read  so  often  to  princesses,  comrades,  and  critics,  is  announced 
for  production  in  November,  and  the  poet  is  established  at 
Paris  none  too  soon. 

He  had  written  this  play  in  the  spirit  of  an  artist  formed 
and  necessitated  to  succeed.  It  was  at  one  of  the  noble  and 
beautiful  fetes  of  the  period,  given  to  the  Duchess  du  Maine, 
that  he  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  a  tragedy  upon  this  oft- 
used  theme.  The  duchess  on  that  occasion  assisted  at  a  rep- 
resentation of  the  "  Iphigeuia '.'  of  Euripides,  translated  into 
French  at  her  request  by  M.  de  Malezieu,  herself  playing  the 
part  of  Iphigenia.  The  young  poet  was  deeply  moved  by  the 
austere  majesty  of  the  play. 

"At  that  time  [as  he  afterwards  told  the  duchess]  I  had  no  fa- 
miliarity with  our  French  drama,  and  it  did  not  enter  my  mind  that 
an  affair  of  love  could  be  mingled  with  that  tragic  subject.  I  yielded 
myself  to  the  manners  and  customs  of  Greece  so  much  the  more 
easily  from  scarcely  knowing  any  others,  and  I  admired  the  antique 
in  all  its  noble  simplicity.  This  performance  it  was  which  gave  me 
the  first  idea  of  composing  my  tragedy,  before  I  had  even  read  the 
'  CEdipe  '  of  Corneille.  I  began  with  translating,  by  way  of  experi- 
ment, the  famous  scene  of  Sophocles,  which  contains  the  mutual  confi- 
dence of  Jocaste  and  Q^dipe.  I  read  it  to  some  of  my  friends  who 
went  often  to  the  theatre,  and  to  some  actors.  They  assured  me  that 
the  scene  could  never  succeed  in  France ;  they  urged  me  to  read  Cor- 
neille, who  had  carefully  avoided  it ;  and  they  all  agreed  that  if  I  did 
not  follow  his  example,  and  put  a  love  affair  into  '  CEdipe,'  the  act- 
ors themselves  would  not  accept  my  work.  I  then  read  the  '  CEdipe ' 
of  Corneille,  which,  without  being  regarded  as  equal  in  merit  to  his 
'  Cinna '  and  '  Polyeucte,'  had  then  much  reputation.  I  confess 
that  the  play  revolted  me  from  one  end  to  the  other  ;  but  it  was  nee- 


"CEDIPE"   PERFORMED.  117 

essary  to  yield  to  precedent  and  to  bad  usage.  In  the  midst  of  the 
terror  of  that  masterpiece  of  antiquity  I  introduced,  not  an  affair  of 
love,  —  that  idea  appeared  to  me  too  shocking,  —  but  at  least  the  rec- 
ollection of  an  extinct  passion."  ^ 

And  when  he  bad  written  his  play  his  troubles  were  far 
from  being  at  an  end.  Among  the  papers  of  Father  Poree, 
his  Latin  master  at  the  College  Louis-le-Grand,  was  found 
after  his  death  a  letter  of  1729,  in  which  the  young  dramatist 
mentioned  some  of  the  other  obstacles  he  had  been  obliged  to 
encounter. 

"Young  as  I  was  [wrote  the  pupil  to  the  master],  I  composed 
'  OEdipe '  very  nearly  as  you  see  it  to-day.  I  was  full  of  the  read- 
ing of  the  ancients  and  of  your  lessons,  and,  knowing  very  imper- 
fectly the  Paris  stage,  I  worked  almost  as  if  I  had  been  at  Athens. 
I  consulted  M.  Dacier,^  who  was  of  that  country.  He  advised  me  to 
put  a  chorus  into  all  the  scenes,  after  the  manner  of  the  Greeks ; 
which  was  like  advising  me  to  walk  in  Paris  wearing  Plato's  robe. 
It  was  all  I  could  do  to  induce  the  actors  of  Paris  to  perform  the 
chorus  that  appeared  only  three  or  four  times  in  the  play ;  and  I  had 
even  more  trouble  to  get  them  to  accept  a  piece  devoid  of  love.  The 
actresses  laughed  at  me  when  they  saw  that  there  was  no  part  for  the 
amorous  lady,  and  they  found  the  scene  of  the  twofold  confidence  be- 
tween OEdipe  and  Jocaste  (drawn  in  part  from  Sophocles)  entirely 
insipid.  In  a  word,  the  actors,  who  were  then  coxcombs  and  great 
lords,  refused  to  play  the  piece.  I  was  extremely  young.  I  be- 
lieved they  were  right.  To  please  them  I  spoiled  my  tragedy  by 
mingling  sentiments  of  tenderness  with  a  legend  to  which  they  were 
so  unsuited.  When  they  saw  a  little  love  in  the  play  they  were  less 
dissatisfied  with  me,  but  they  would  not  tolerate  in  the  least  that 
grand  scene  between  Jocaste  and  CEdipe ;  they  ridiculed,  at  once, 
Sophocles  and  his  imitator.  I  held  my  ground  ;  I  gave  my  reasons  ; 
I  set  some  of  my  friends  at  work ;  and,  after  all,  it  was  only  through 
the  influence  of  important  persons  that  I  induced  them  to  play 
'  OEdipe.'  Thei-e  was  an  actor  named  Quinault  who  said  openly  that, 
to  punish  me  for  my  obstinacy,  the  piece  ought  to  be  played  just  as  it 
was,  including  that  bad  fourth  act  taken  from  the  Greek.  Besides, 
they  regarded  me  as  a  j^resumptuous  person  to  dare  treat  a  subject 
with  which  Pierre  Corneille  had  succeeded  so  well.  Corneille's 
*  CEdipe '  was  at  that  time  considered  an  excellent  work.     I  deemed 

1  6  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  156. 

2  The  celebrated  translator. 


118  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

it  a  very  poor  work,  and  I  dared  not  say  so.    I  did  not  say  it  till  ten 
years  had  passed,  when  the  public  was  of  my  opinion."  ^ 

But  now,  owing  to  the  good  word  of  the  Prince  de  Conti 
and  other  appreciators  of  the  poet,  all  difficulties  were  over- 
come, and  the  polite  world  of  Paris  was  expectant  of  the  sen- 
sation of  a  new  play  by  a  new  poet :  a  poet  just  out  of  the 
Bastille ;  a  play  of  which  great  things  were  said  and  mis- 
chievous things  were  whispered  in  high  circles. 

Voltaire  himself  tells  us  what  a  first  night  then  was  to  the 
graceful  idlers  of  Paris,  —  thirty  thousand  persons,  as  he  com- 
puted, in  a  population  of  half  a  million.  Cabals  became  ac- 
tive for  and  against  the  new  play.  There  were  intrigues  for 
the  possession  of  a  box,  and  by  noon  of  the  great  day  the  the- 
atre was  filled  with  valets  keeping  seats  for  their  masters. 
The  piece  was  judged  before  the  curtain  rose  on  the  first  act. 
Women  argued  with  women :  dandies  with  dandies ;  cliques 
with  cliques.  The  cafds  filled  early  in  the  day  with  people 
disputing  the  merits  of  a  production  which  none  of  them  had 
seen.  Crowds  gathered  in  the  street  waiting  for  admission  to 
the  parquette.  Bets  were  made,  and  the  fate  of  the  piece  was 
foretold  by  a  throw  of  the  dice.  The  actors  trembled,  the 
author  also  ;  and  all  his  friends  were  anxious  and  astir.^ 

On  some  occasions,  when  partisans  were  unusually  excited, 
each  spectator  was  asked,  as  he  entered  the  parquette,  "  Do 
you  come  to  hiss?"  "Yes."  "Then  sit  over  there."  But 
if  he  answered,  "  I  come  to  applaud,"  he  was  directed  to  the 
other  side.  Thus  the  two  beUigerent  bodies  were  massed  for 
more  effective  action.^ 

The  hour  has  come.  It  is  Friday,  November  18,  1718. 
The  house  is  crowded  ;  the  candles  are  snujffed ;  the  ladies 
glitter  with  jewelry.  At  that  time,  and  as  late  as  1759,  spec- 
tators were  allowed  both  to  stand  and  sit  upon  the  stage ; 
nay,  to  lounge  about,  converse,  and  even  smoke.  The  same 
dread  of  the  audience  which  makes  our  performers  nightly 
submit  to  the  imposition  of  encores,  and  destroy  illusion  by 
acknowledging  applause,  preserved  this  abuse  for  a  century, 
against  the  rebuke  and  ridicule  of  every  lover  of  the  dramatic 

1  Voltaire  to  Pere  Poree.     January  7,  1729. 

2  Voltaire  to  his  niece,  Madame  Denis.     March  3,  1752. 

3  16  (Euvres  de  Voltaire,  268. 


"(EDEPE"  PERFOKMED.  119 

art.  Four  rows  of  benches  on  each  side,  one  behind  and 
above  the  other,  had  now  replaced  the  primeval  stools,  and 
formed  upon  the  stage  a  kind  of  amphitheatre,  which  was  en- 
closed by  a  gilded  railing.  On  important  nights  like  this 
there  would  also  be  a  row  of  seats  outside  the  railing,  as 
well  as  a  solid  mass  of  spectators  standing  at  the  back  of  the 
stage,  through  which  the  actors  forced  their  way  to  the  front. ^ 
Garrick  in  England,  Voltaire  in  France,  forty  years  later, 
cleared  the  stage  of  this  absurd  incumbrance,  to  the  great  re- 
lief and  joy  of  all  concerned. 

Imagine,  then,  an  interior  not  very  large,  not  too  brilliantly 
lighted,  crowded  with  people,  all  dressed  in  the  showy  colors 
and  picturesque  garments  of  the  time,  with  a  narrow  strip  of 
stage  in  the  midst  thereof,  upon  which  the  terrible  legend 
of  CEdipus  is  to  be  presented,  set  to  the  music  of  French 
rhyme.  The  audience  was  homogeneous,  at  least.  There 
were  no  "  groundlings  "  to  be  conciliated,  nor  "  gods  "  to  be 
kept  quiet ;  for,  at  that  period,  the  industrial  people  of  Paris 
only  went  to  the  theatre  on  certain  festive  days,  when  the 
king  paid  for  all.  Dealers  in  lemonade  moved  about  among 
the  spectators.  The  rosy  regent  may  have  been  there  with 
a  mistress  conspicuous  at  his  side,  and  the  duchess,  his  wife, 
may  have  also  been  present  in  her  own  box,  not  far  off.  A 
chronicler  of  the  time  mentions  seeing  at  this  very  theatre,  in 
the  Palais  Royal,  in  1720,  the  regent,  with  one  of  his  mis- 
tresses seated  next  to  him,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  house, 
"  Monsieur  le  Due,"  the  prince  next  in  rank  to  the  regent, 
also  with  his  mistress  sitting  beside  him.^ 

A  more  pleasing  tradition  is  that  Maitre  Arouet,  the  much- 
enduring  father  of  the  poet,  was  among  the  spectators.  The 
young  man  himself  was  behind  the  scenes,  suffering  the  pangs 
which  all  authors  know,  and,  as  it  seems,  affecting  the  gayety 
that  young  authors  sometimes  affect  on  such  occasions. 

The  bell  rings  to  notify  the  audience  that  the  curtain  is 
about  to  rise,  and  that  all  must  leave  the  theatre  who  do  not 
intend  to  witness  the  performance.  To  those  who  go  out, 
if  any  do,  their  money  is  returned.  This  strange  custom  ac- 
commodated people  who  only  came  to  see  the  assembly  and 

1  7  Jourual  de  Barbier,  160. 

2  1  Journal  de  Marais,  495. 


120 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


converse  with  acquaintances.  On  first  nights,  however,  there 
were  few  such  visitors,  or  none.  The  curtain  rises.  The 
Prince  of  Euboea  enters,  followed  by  his  convenient  friend, 
Dimas,  both  dressed  in  the  mode  of  Paris,  mmo  1718,  with 
swords  at  their  sides,  precisely  similar  to  those  worn  by  every 
gentleman  in  the  audience.  The  first  couplet  gives  the  key- 
note :  — 

"  Philoctete,  est-ce  vous  ?  Quel  coup  affreux  du  sort 
Dans  ces  lieux  empestes  vous  fait  chercher  la  mort  ?  " 

Among  the  last  things  reached  by  a  student  of  the  beauti- 
ful language  and  noble  literature  of  France  is  an  appreci- 
ation of  the  rhymed  tragedies  of  the  elder  dramatists,  Cor- 
neille,  Racine,  Voltaire.  We  have,  first  of  all,  to  forget 
Shakespeare,  and  all  Shakespearean  methods.  We  have  also 
to  pass  through  a  process  similar  to  that  by  which  a  country 
youth  learns  first  to  endure,  then  forgive,  and,  finally,  love 
the  Italian  opera ;  or  that  process  by  which  a  performer  of 
the  "  Battle  of  Prague  "  on  the  piano  comes  to  dote  upon  a 
Wagnerian  opera,  —  a  beautiful  legend,  gliding  slowly  by  to 
the  sound  of  heavenly  music. 

A  French  tragedy  of  the  old  style  is  a  spoken  opera,  a 
series  of  stately,  rhymed  dialogue,  relieved  by  little  action, 
burdened  with  much  narration  ;  the  decisive  events  being  us- 
ually told,  not  exhibited.  There  is  scarcely  any  attempt  at 
naturalness  or  verisimilitude ;  there  are  commonly  no  forms 
of  salutation  or  farewell ;  and  there  is  nothing  approaching 
a  jest.  The  first  words  are  fraught  with  the  agony  of  the 
theme  ;  the  story  moves  on  with  little  interruption  ;  and  there 
are  few  passages  of  an  independent  beauty,  such  as  "  Mercy  is 
twice  blessed,"  and  the  suicide  soliloquy  in  "  Hamlet."  The 
villains  are  conscious  villains,  and  expatiate  upon  their  vil- 
lainy with  a  simplicity  that  amuses  ;  but  the  good  are  wholly 
and  romantically  good.  In  Shakespeare  there  is  always  the 
powerful  legend,  but  there  is  also  a  varied  exhibition  of 
human  character.  In  the  old  French  tragedy  the  legend 
dominates,  fate  is  supreme,  and  the  characters  are  little  indi- 
vidualized. Such,  however,  is  the  charm  of  literary  art,  that 
these  tragedies  retain  a  place  in  the  world's  literature,  and 
will  perhaps  be  read,  performed,  and  loved  after  most  of  t)ie 
subsequent  drama  of  France  has  faded  forever  from  the  mem- 
ories of  men. 


"  CEDIPE  "  PERFORMED.  121 

This  "  Qildipe  "  of  Voltaire's  held  and  thrilled  the  audience. 
With  much  of  the  excellence  of  his  two  great  predecessors,  he 
possessed  an  effectiveness  all  his  own,  and  he  provided  his 
actors  with  an  extraordinary  number  of  "  points,"  which  gave 
them  easy  opportunities  of  winning  applause. 

All  plays  that  play  well,  from  "  Hamlet  "  to  "  The  Hunch- 
back," have  one  quality  in  common,  and  only  one,  —  they 
afford  the  actors  good  chances  to  display  their  talents.  Peo- 
ple go  to  the  theatre  to  see  acting,  and  the  dramatist's  part 
in  the  enterprise  is  to  provide  opportunity  for  acting.  Vol- 
taire performed  this  duty,  and  did  not  disdam  to  insert  some 
passages  of  the  kind  which  are  now  styled  local  hits.  Since 
the  play  turned  upon  incest  and_  pajricide,  the  enemies  of  the 
regent  came  to  the  theatre  expecting  allusion  to  the  infernal 
imaginings  of  base  minds  then  current  in  Paris.  They  pre- 
tended to  find  what  they  sought ;  and  the  play  contained 
allusion  enough  of  other  kinds,  intended  by  the  author. 

Thunders  of  applause  followed  the  delivery  of  a  powerful 
passage  in  the  first  scene,  which  reminded  auditors  of  their 
beloved  little  king,  eight  years  old,  and  of  the  fine  example 
set  him  by  his  elders  :  "  The  friendship  of  a  great  man  is  a 
boon  from  the  gods.  What  had  I  been  without  him?  Nothing 
but  a  king's  son  !  Nothing  but  a  common  prince  !  I  should 
have  been,  perhaps,  the  slave  of  ray  senses,  of  which  he  has 
rendered  me  the  master !  " 

The  friends  and  the  enemies  of  the  regent,  the  friends 
and  the  enemies  of  the  Duchess  du  Maine,  the  friends  and 
the  enemies  of  the  king's  tutor,  Fleury,  were  all  equally 
obliged  to  applaud  this  passage.  In  the  same  act  there  were 
some  lines  that  appealed  to  the  people  who  were  relenting 
toward  the  memory  of  the  late  king,  and  remembered  with 
shame  how  his  funeral  rites  had  been  slighted  :  "  Kings  while 
they  live  are  obeyed,  even  in  things  belonging  to  the  other 
world.  Adored  by  their  subjects,  they  are  gods  themselves. 
But  after  their  death,  what  are  they  in  your  eyes  ?  You 
extinguish  the  incense  that  you  burned  to  them ;  and,  as  the 
human  soul  is  controlled  by  interest,  the  virtue  which  is  no 
more  is  instantly  forgotten.  The  blood  of  your  king  rises 
up  against  you  !  " 

And    again,  when    Jocaste    exclaims,    "  Incest   and   parri- 


122  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

cide !  "  the  ill-disposed  could  not  but  think  of  a  prince  pop- 
ularly accused  of  both.  For  the  sect  of  the  unbelievers, 
already  numerous  and  zealous,  there  were  two  titbits,  one  of 
which  was  vehemently  applauded :  "  Our  priests  are  not  what 
the  foolish  people  think  them ;  our  credulity  makes  all  their 
science." 

There  was  a  point,  too,  in  the  fourth  act,  which  recalled 
the  parade  adopted  during  the  last  two  reigns  whenever  the 
king  appeared  to  the  public,  —  "a  hedge  of  soldiers  "  lining 
both  sides  of  the  street.  The  reduction  of  the  twelve  thousand 
royal  guards  was  a  topic  of  the  day. 

CEdipe.  —  "  When  Laius  undertook  that  fatal  journey,  had  he  any 
guards,  any  soldiers,  with  him  ?  " 

JocASTE. —  "I  have  told  you  already  that  one  man  alone  went 
with  him." 

CEdipe.  —  "  Only  one  man  ?  " 

JoCASTE. —  "  That  king,  greater  than  his  rank,  disdained,  like  you, 
a  wearisome  pomp.  Before  his  chariot  the  gorgeous  rampart  of  a 
numerous  battalion  was  never  seen  marching.  In  the  midst  of  sub- 
jects submissive  to  his  authority,  as  he  was  without  fear,  he  went  his 
way  without  defense.  By  the  love  of  his  people  he  believed  himself 
guarded." 

Such  passages  as  these,  though  they  could  not  have  saved 
a  dull  play,  added  greatly  to  the  success  of  this  truly  powerful 
one.  The  fourth  act  profoundly  moved  the  audience,  and 
the  interest  was  well  sustained  to  the  end.  The  chorus,  spar- 
ingly used,  had  a  happy  effect,  and  gave  variety  as  well  as  dig- 
nity to  the  performance. 

Tradition  reports  that  in  the  last  scene,  when  the  high 
priest  and  the  chorus  have  the  stage  almost  to  themselves, 
the  author,  hilarious  with  his  triumph,  seized  the  pontiff's 
train,  and  came  in  view  of  the  spectators  still  bearing  it. 
Madame  de  Villars,  who  saw  this  extravagance,  asked,  "  Who 
is  that  young  man  trying  to  damn  the  play?  "  Upon  learn- 
ing that  it  was  the  author,  she  conceived  a  high  opinion  of 
his  magnanimity,  and  had  him  presented  to  her.  The  ac- 
quaintance thus  formed  lasted  long,  and  had  important  con- 
sequences. 

pMaitre  Arouet,  so  runs  the  tale,  did  not  listen  in  silent 
{rapture  to  the  fervid  verse  of  his  troublesome  offspring.     "  Ah, 


"CEDIPE"   PERFOEMED.  123 


the  rogue  !  Ah,  the  rogue  !  "  he  is  said  to  have  muttered  from 
time  to  time  during  the  performance,  and  ended  by  crying  out- 
right at  the  fourth  act. 

One  brilliant  anecdote  of  this  great  night  the  author  him- 
self recorded,  fifty-five  years  after,  in  a  letter  to  La  Harpe. 
His  grand  lady  friends  kept  telling  him,  during  the  evening, 
how  superior  his  piece  was  to  that  of  Corneille  on  the  same 
subject.  The  young  poet,  always  loyal  to  his  great  forerun- 
ners, always  a  modest  author,  contrived,  by  a  happy  quota- 
tion from  Corneille  himself,  to  accept  the  compliment,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  pay  becoming  homage  to  the  father  of  French 
tragedy.  He  quoted  the  lines  from  Corneille's  "Pompey" 
which  the  victorious  Caesar  pronounces  over  Pompey's  dead 
body :  "  Remains  of  a  demi-god,  never  can  I  equal  thy  great 
name,  thy  conqueror  though  I  am !  " 

"  Restes  d'un  demi-dieu,  dont  jamais  je  ne  puis 
Egaler  le  giaud  nom,  tout  vauqueur  que  j'en  suis." 

(Acte  v.,  Scene  1.) 

It  was  a  pretty  story  to  run  from  box  to  box,  from  drawing- 
room  to  drawing-room,  from  chateau  to  chateau,  in  those  first 
weeks  of  a  new-born  fame.  Subsequent  representations  con- 
firmed and  enhanced  the  triumph  of  the  opening  night.  Both 
the  partisans  of  the  regent  and  those  of  the  Duke  du  Maine 
had  an  equal  interest  in  promoting  the  run  of  the  play.  Ac- 
cording to  the  biographer  of  the  regent,  every  point  was  "  ap- 
plied and  applauded  "  by  both  parties  alike,  while  the  author 
affected  not  to  perceive  the  existence  of  the  strife,  and  in- 
duced the  regent  to  attend  a  performance  with  his  daughter, 
the  Duchess  of  Berri.  That  princess,  he  adds,  came  "  five 
nights  in  succession  to  see  the  play,  as  if  to  brave  public 
opinion."  People  spoke  of  the  Regent-CEdipe,  and  of  his 
daughter  as  Berri-Jocaste.^ 

The  good-natured  prince  held  his  ground,  and  heaped  hon- 
ors upon  the  fortunate  author.  He  presented  him,  in  the 
king's  name,  with  a  massive  gold  medal.  The  original  record 
of  this  transaction  exists  in  the  great  Librai-y  of  Paris:  "De- 
cember 6, 1718.  Given  to  the  Sieur  Arouet  a  gold  medal,  rep- 
resenting on  one  side  the  King,  and  on  the  other  Monseigneur 
the  Due  d' Orleans,  Regent,  amounting  to  the  sum  of  six  huu- 
1  Philippe  d'Orlcans,  par  M.  Capefigue,  page  394. 


124  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

dred  and  sovent3'-five  livres  ten  sous."  ^  The  duke  publicly 
conversed  with  the  author  at  the  next  opera  ball.  The  sub- 
ject of  their  conversation  was  Rabelais,  whose  works  the  re- 
gent extravagantly  praised,  which  caused  the  young  man  to 
think  ill  of  the  prince's  taste.  "  I  had  then,"  Voltaire  says, 
"  a  sovereign  contempt  for  Rabelais,"  from  which  he  long 
afterwards  recovered,  on  learning  more  of  the  times  and  cir- 
cumstances in  which  Rabelais  wrote.^  More  than  all  this, 
the  regent  permitted  the  tragedy  to  be  performed  in  the  Tui- 
leries  for  the  amusement  of  the  boy-king.  This  last  was  the 
crowning  triumph  of  the  poet.  The  Marquis  de  Daugeau,  who 
disposes  of  great  affairs  of  state  in  four  lines,  devotes  to  this 
event  a  considerable  pai'agraph  :  — 

"  Saturday,  January  11,  1719,  the  drama  of  '  CEdipe '  was 
played  at  the  king's  palace,  when  Madame  de  Berri  sat  beside 
him  in  gi-and  toilette,  and  all  the  ladies  who  were  in  the  king's 
view  were  in  grand  toilette  also.  But  those  who  were  upon 
the  steps  behind  the  king,  and  in  the  galleries,  were  in  their 
usual  clothes.  The  piece  was  much  applauded.  The  ambas- 
sadors of  the  emperor,  those  of  the  king  of  Portugal  and  the 
king  of  Sardinia,  were  present.  Although  the  room  was  small, 
there  was  a  large  company,  and  very  great  order  was  ob- 
served." 

-  The  play  was  performed  fortj'^-five  successive  nights,  —  a  run 
not  previously  equaled  on  the  French  stage  ;  and  it  remains  to 
this  day  a  stock  piece,  played  whenever  there  is  an  actress 
capable  of  personating  the  ill-starred  heroine.  The  author,  as 
he  tells  us,  was  present  every  night,  watching  both  the  per- 
formance and  the  audience,  and  learning  something  of  his  art 
from  both.  "  Each  representation  of  my  '  Qj^dipe  '  was  for  me 
a  severe  study,  in  which  I  gathered  the  approval  and  the  cen- 
sures of  the  public,  and  studied  the  public  taste  to  form  my 
own."  Yet  he  would  not  always  admit  the  correctness  of  the 
public  verdict ;  he  remahied  dissatisfied  with  the  first  scene  of 
the  fourth  act,  though  it  was  the  one  that  nightly  produced 
the  greatest  effect. 

The  poet  pushed   and   utilized    this    first   success  in  every 
possible  way  and  to  the  uttermost  degree.      In  a  few  days 

1  Jeunesse  de  Voltaire,  page  158. 

2  Voltaire  to  Madame  du  Deffand,  October  13,  1759. 


"CEDIPE"  PERFORMED.  125 

after  the  opening  niglit  he  was  ready  with  an  edition  of  the 
tragedy,  which  bore  a  most  flattering  "  approbation  "  from  the 
ofiicial  censor,  the  poet  La  Motte.  "  The  public,  at  the  rep- 
resentation of  this  piece,"  said  La  Motte,  "  promised  itself  a 
worthy  successor  of  Corneille  and  Racine  ;  and  I  believe  that 
at  the  reading  of  it  it  will  abate  nothing  of  its  hopes."  With 
audacious  tact,  the  author  dedicated  the  play  to  the  Duchess 
of  Orleans,  the  regent's  mother,  telling  her  in  his  epistle  that, 
if  the  usage  of  dedicating  literary  works  to  the  best  judges  of 
them  were  not  already  established,  it  would  begin  with  Her 
Royal  Highness,  the  protectress  of  the  fine  arts,  the  example 
and  the  delight  of  France.  He  prefixed  to  the  play  several 
letters,  gossipy  and  critical,  in  which  he  discoursed  upon  his 
late  mishap  in  being  suspected  of  having  written  a  parcel  of 
stuff  eutitled  "  I  Have  Seen ;  "  and  he  let  the  public  know 
that  His  Royal  Highness  had  deigned  to  acknowledge  his  in- 
nocence and  to  compensate  him  for  his  detention.  He  des- 
canted at  some  length  upon  the  "  CEdipe  "  of  Sophocles,  upon 
that  of  Corneille,  and  upon  his  own,  comparing  their  faults 
and  merits  with  interesting  candor;  conceding  the  general  su- 
periority of  his  two  predecessors,  but  not  concealing  his  just 
opinion  that,  in  the  matter  of  "  CEdipe,"  it  was  M.  Arouet  de 
Voltaire  who  had  treated  the  legend  most  suitably  to  modern 
tastes.  A  swarm  of  pamphlets  fluttered  from  the  press  in  re- 
sponse, some  defending  the  Greek  poet,  others  the  French. 
The  Prince  de  Conti  wrote  a  poem  in  honor  of  the  new  play 
and  poet,  in  which  he  said  that  the  new  treatment  of  the  old 
theme  was  such  as  to  make  people  think  either  that  Racine 
had  come  back  from  Hades,  or  else  that  Corneille  in  Hades 
had  corrected  his  style.  "  Monseigneur,"  said  Voltaire  to  the 
prince,  '•  you  will  be  a  great  poet ;  I  must  get  the  king  to  give 
you  a  pension,"  —  a  good  example  of  the  "tone  of  ease"  which 
he  took  with  the  lords  of  the  earth.  He  also  addressed  a 
poem  to  the  prince,  which  contains  something  more  and  bet- 
ter than  the  usual  eulogium.  He  sent  a  copy  of  his  play  to 
George  I.  of  England,  with  a  sweUing  sonnet  addressed  to  the 
monarch,  and  another  copy  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Lor- 
raine (the  lady  being  a  sister  of  the  regent),  with  a  modest 
stanza. 

The  author's  share  of  the  profits  of  the  performance  appears 


V 


126  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

to  have  been  about  four  thousand  francs,  to  which  must  per- 
haps be  ackled  a  thousand  crowns,  said  to  have  been  given  him 
by  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  and  part  of  the  proceeds  of  the  sale 
of  copies.  He  was  a  capitalist!  We  begin  to  find  intima- 
tions in  his  correspondence  that  he  possessed  bonds  and  shares. 
fo  "  A  good  part  of  my  property  is  in  the  India  Company,"  he 

writes  in  these  weeks  to  a  lady.  All  the  world  was  buying 
shares  in  one  or  the  other  of  the  schemes  of  John  Law.  Mak- 
ing money  was  coming  into  fashion,  and  it  was  a  very  good 
time  for  a  notary's  son  to  go  upon  the  street  with  a  few  thou- 
sand francs  of  good  money  in  his  pocket.  He  had  something 
better  even  than  money,  namely,  a  permit,  a  privilege  or  mo- 
nopoly of  some  kind  from  the  regent,  upon  which  a  money- 
making  enterprise  was  founded,  and  in  speaking  of  which  he 
takes  the  tone  of  the  director.^ 

1  1  Lettres  Inedites  de  Voltaire,  2,  3. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

FROM  CHATEAU  TO  CHATEAU. 

Those  were  happy  days.  There  are  few  keener  delights 
enjoyed  by  mortals  than  a  genuine  literary  success,  whether 
the  motive  of  the  author  be  public  or  personal.  I  have  heard 
a  poet  of  our  own  time  say,  apropos  of  Dante's  "  Paradise," 
that  he  could  imagine  no  bliss  of  disembodied  spirits  greater 
than  that  of  publishing,  every  three  or  four  years,  a  little  vol- 
ume which  should  pervade  the  civilized  world,  and  cause  that 
world  to  give  back  to  the  author  a  glance  of  sympathetic  rec- 
ognition. A  dramatic  triumph  is,  perhaps,  the  most  thrilling 
of  all  the  forms  of  literary  glory,  since  it  is  one  which  the  au- 
thor can  himself  nightly  witness  and  vividly  feel. 

Voltaire  at  this  time  had  two  comrades  to  share  and  in- 
crease his  happiness,  with  whom  he  had  many  a  gay  ride  into 
the  country,  and  many  a  merry  supper  in  town  after  the  play. 
One  of  these  was  a  young  man  named  De  G^nonville,  to 
whose  "  manes  "  he  afterwards  addressed  the  well-known  Epis- 
tle. The  other  was  JMademoiselle  de  Livri,  whom  he  had  met 
at  the  chateau  of  the  Duke  of  Sully,  where  she  served  asfemme 
de  chamhre  to  the  duchess,  and  played  comedy  parts  in  the 
little  theatre  of  the  chateau.  Voltaire,  struck  with  her  talent, 
and  perhaps  attracted  by  her  personal  charms,  gave  her  lessons 
in  the  dramatic  art,  and  promised  to  use  his  interest  in  pro- 
curing her  a  debut  upon  the  stage  of  Paris.  The  success  of 
"GEdipe"  now  gave  his  recommendation  so  much  weight  that 
the  young  lady  was  in  Paris  in  the  spring  of  1719,  rehearsing 
the  important  part  of  Jocaste  in  the  new  tragedy,  which  was 
to  be  revived  after  Lent.  Hence  the  gay  rides  and  the  merry 
suppers  of  the  three  inseparables  —  Voltaire,  De  Genonville, 
and  '•  Egcrie." 

"You  remember  the  time,"  Voltaire  sings  to  the  "  manes" 
of  his  old  friend,  "  when  the  amiable  Egcrie,  in  the  beautiful 


128  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

days  of  our  life,  heard  our  songs  and  shared  our  enthusiasms. 
We  three  loved  one  another.  Reason,  folly,  love,  the  enchant- 
ment of  the  most  tender  errors,  —  all  bound  together  our  three 
hearts.  How  happy  we  were  !  Even  that  poverty  of  ours, 
sad  companion  of  bright  days,  could  not  poison  the  current 
of  our  joy.  Young,  gay,  content,  without  care,  w^ithout  fore- 
thought, limiting  all  our  desires  to  the  cielights  of  the  present 
moment,  what  need  had  we  of  a  vain  abundance  ?  We  had 
richer  possessions :  we  had  the  pleasures."  ^ 

Such  was  his  remembrance  of  those  months,  after  ten  years 
had  rolled  over  his  head,  [For  a  time,  it  seems,  the  poet  was 
in  love  with  his  engaging  pupil,  and  gave  her  his  portrait, 
jvhich  has  been  preserved  to  this  day.  She  came  at  last  to 
prefer  De  Genonville  ;  Voltaire  also  was  drawn  away  by  a  more 
potent  attraction  ;  and  these  are,  as  we  may  conjecture,  the 
"  tender  errors  "  of  which  the  poet  speaks.  One  of  his  own 
tender  errors  of  that  too  brief  period  of  joy  was  intrusting  a 
leading  part  in  high  tragedy  to  a  young  girl  from  the  country 
before  she  had  learned  to  pronounce  her  native  tongue  in  the 
Parisian  manner.  When  "Q^dipe"was  revived  after  Lent, 
Mademoiselle  de  Livri  appeared  in  the  part  of  the  Queen,  and 
with  the  greater  prestige  from  being  represented  by  the  scan- 
dal of  the  day  as  the  maitresse  of  the  author.  Her  failure  was 
complete  and  hopeless.  Some  provincial  peculiarities  of  pro- 
nunciation provoked  laughter,  and  she  was  so  manifestly  un- 
equal to  the  part  that,  on  the  third  night,  it  was  resumed  by 
the  excellent  actress  who  had  originally  performed  it. 

The  author  of  the  play  was  not  long  in  discovering  "the  jus- 
tice" of  the  public  verdict ;  but  on  the  fatal  evening  he  was 
extremely  indignant.  Observing  one  of  the  actors,  Poisson, 
joining  in  the  general  laughter,  he  assailed  him  with  a  volley 
of  abusive  words.  At  the  end  of  the  performance  (so  the 
gossip  of  the  day  reports),  Poisson  waited  for  him  at  the  door 
of  the  theatre,  and  challenged  him.  The  author  declining 
the  combat  "  against  an  actor,"  Poisson  threatened  to  assault 
him  with  his  cane,  and  the  poet  is  said  to  have  complained  to 
the  police,  and  caused  the  actor  to  be  thrown  into  prison,  from 
which  he  was  released  through  Voltaire's  own  intercession. 
Malign  gossip  asserts  that  this  intercession  was  itself  a  piece 
V.-^        ^  Epitre  aux  Manes  de  M.  de  Genonville,  1729  ;  17  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  82. 


FROM  CHATEAU  TO  CHATEAU.  129 

of  histrionic  performance.  Mademoiselle  de  Livri  resumed 
her  corned}'  parts,  and  was  heard  of  on  the  Paris  stage  no 
more.  Her  subsequent  career  in  the  world  surpassed  in  start-  '^ 
ling  surprises  and  splendid  transformation  scenes  any  comedy 
in  which  she  ever  performed.  Meanwhile,  exit  Egerie,  and 
the  gay  trio  is  dispersed,  never  to  be  merry  together  again. 

Who  has  ever  tasted  dramatic  success  without  courting  the 
muse  a  second  time?  The  poet  had  already  fixed  upon  a 
theme  for  another  tragedy,  —  Artemire,  queen  to  Cassander, 
a  king  of  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great.  In  the  composi- 
tion of  "  Q^dipe,"  he  had  been  aided  by  previous  versions 
of  the  awful  legend,  and  owed  the  supreme  effect  of  the  play 
in  the  fourth  act  to  the  genius  of  Sophocles.  His  purpose 
now  was  to  produce  a  work  which  should  be  wholly  his 
own,  including  the  story,  —  a  feat  which  a  dramatist  of  his 
rank  has  rarely  attempted.  It  was  a  tale  of  an  innocent 
queen  and  an  absent  husband  made  jealous  by  false  accusa- 
tions, which  he  discovers  to  be  false  just  after  he  has  received 
his  death  wound.  He  began  to  compose  this  piece  with  his 
usual  ardor,  when  he  was  once  more  exiled  from  Paris. 

The  rejjent  continued  to  live  in  the  self-indulcjent  manner 
described  above,  and  the  hostile  faction  continued,  also,  to  in- 
trigue and  calumniate.  Three  short  poems,  called  "  The  Phi- 
lippics "  (the  regent's  name  was  Philip),  appeared  in  Paris 
in  the  spring  of  1719,  in  which  the  worst  scandals  concerning 
the  regent  and  his  court  were  recounted  in  verse  so  melodious 
and  effective  that  to  this  day  "  Les  Philippiques "  rank  as 
part  of  the  classic  literature  of  France.  They  had  such  an 
immediate  circulation  all  over  the  country  that  it  seemed 
the  effect  of  systematic  exertion.  The  French  are  curiously 
susceptible  to  the  charm  of  versification,  and,  in  the  dawn  of 
freedom,  there  is  a  propensity  to  exaggerate  the  faults  of  -H 
rulers.  These  Philippics  repeated  the  hackneyed  insinuations 
with  regard  to  the  regent  and  his  daughter,  the  Duchess  of 
Berri,  and  distinctl}'  accused  him  of  a  design  to  poison  the 
boy-king,  his  nephew.  This  regent  committed  grievous 
faults  ;  his  daily  life  was  shameful ;  but  he  was  a  fond  father 
and  uncle,  and  as  incapable  of  the  crimes  imputed  to  him  as 
any  gentleman  in  Europe.  A  moralist  might  aver  that  he 
had  done  worse  things  than  those  of  which  he  was  accused, 

VOL.  I.  9 


130  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

but  he  had  not  done  those.  It  was,  perhaps,  more  injurious 
to  France  for  him  to  live  as  he  lived,  and  prepare  for  that 
boy  the  moral  atmosphere  which  his  example  and  policy  did 
prepare  for  him,  than  to  slay  him  outright,  and  seize  his  crown. 
But,  in  his  own  way,  he  loved  the  little  king,  and  performed 
punctiliously  every  duty  towards  him  which  the  moral  feeling 
of  that  court  demanded.  These  scandalous  poems  cut  him  to 
the  heart.  He  heard  of  them  some  time  before  he  saw  them, 
and  often  asked  to  see  them  ;  but,  as  St.  Simon  records,  no 
one  dared  show  him  compositions  "  which  contained  all  that 
hell  can  vomit,  both  of  false  and  true,  expressed  in  the  most 
beautiful  verse."  At  length  he  demanded  them  with  such 
urgency  that  St.  Simon  was  obliged  to  obey,  declaring,  as  he 
handed  the  sheet  to  the  regent,  that  as  for  reading  the  poems 
he  would  never  do  it.  The  passage  in  which  the  Duke  of  St. 
Simon  describes  the  scene  that  followed  is  one  of  the  most 
famous  in  the  memoirs  of  that  age,  and  it  may  serve  to  show 
us  what  misery  anonymous  cowards  often  inflict  when  they 
assail  with  poniard  pen  the  defenseless  chief  of  a  nation :  — 

"  The  regent  then  took  the  leaf  and  read  it  to  himself,  standing  in 
the  window  of  his  litde  winter  cabinet,  where  we  were.  He  found 
it,  as  he  read  along,  to  be  such  as  it  was,  for  he  stopped  now  and  then 
to  speak  to  me  about  it,  without  seeming  to  be  much  moved.  But, 
all  at  once,  I  saw  him  change  countenance,  and  turn  toward  me, 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  almost  overcome.  '  Ah,'  he  said,  '  this  is  too 
much  ;  this  horror  is  stronger  than  I.'  He  was  at  the  place  where 
the  scoundrel  showed  the  Duke  of  Orleans  designing  to  poison  the 
king,  and  near  accomplishing  his  crime.  It  is  the  passage  in  which 
the  author  redoubles  his  energy,  his  poetic  fire,  his  invocations,  the 
frightful  and  terrific  beauties  of  his  verse,  hideous  pictures,  touching 
portraiture  of  youth,  the  king's  innocence,  the  hopes  he  gave,  his  ap- 
peals to  the  nation  to  save  a  victim*  so  precious  from  the  murderer's 
barbarity :  in  a  word,  all  that  the  literary  art  has  of  most  delicate  and 
most  tender,  of  most  powerful  and  most  black,  of  most  stately  and 
most  moving.  I  wished  to  avail  myself  of  the  mournful  silence  of 
the  duke  to  take  away  that  execrable  paper,  but  could  not  succeed. 
He  poured  forth  just  complaints  of  a  calumny  so  abominable  ;  he  ut- 
tered expressions  of  tenderness  for  the  king ;  then  he  wished  to  finish 
the  reading,  which  he  again,  and  more  than  once,  interrupted  to  speak 
of  it  to  me.  Never  have  I  seen  a  man  so  penetrated,  so  deeply 
moved,  so  overwhelmed  with  an  injustice  so  enormous  and  sustained. 


FROM  CHATEAU  TO  CHATEAU.  131 

For  my  part,  I  was  beside  myself.  The  most  prejudiced  persons, 
provided  they  were  disinterested  in  their  prejudice,  if  they  had  seen 
him  then,  would  have  yielded  to  the  obvious  certainty  of  his  inno- 
cence and  the  horror  of  the  crime  in  which  he  was  plunged.  I  could 
scarcely  recover  from  the  shock,  and  I  had  all  the  trouble  in  the 
world  to  restore  him  a  little."  ^ 

The  author  of  those  poems,  La  Grange-Chancel,  a  noted 
dramatist  of  the  day,  wrote  them,  as  it  seems,  merely  to 
avenge  a  private  literary  wrong,  committed  not  by  the  re- 
gent, but  by  one  of  the  regent's  favorites.  As  he  had  pre- 
viously published  nothing  equal  to  them  in  force  or  malignity, 
suspicion  passed  him  over,  and  fell  upon  Voltaire,  recently 
from  the  Bastille,  and  still  a  frequenter  of  disaffected  circles. 
He  had  been  much  with  Baron  de  Goertz,  minister  and  emis- 
sary of  Charles  XII.,  intriguer,  sham  financier,  adventurer, 
whose  schemes  included  the  restoration  of  Stanislas  to  the 
throne  of  Poland,  James  II.'s  return  to  England,  and,  perhaps, 
a  change  in  the  dynastic  arrangements  of  Spain  and  France. 
In  his  "  History  of  Charles  XII.,"  Voltaire  explains  these  de- 
signs in  many  pages,  and  gives  the  baron's  character  in  one 
line  :  "  What  his  master  was  at  the  head  of  an  army,  Goertz 
was  in  the  cabinet."  Among  his  other  bold  projects,  he  had 
formed  the  design  to  capture  the  author  of  the  new  "  CEdipe," 
and  bear  him  off  to  grace  the  court  of  the  king  of  Sweden, 
who,  it  was  said  at  the  time,  "  did  not  know  what  a  poet  was." 
The  bullet  that  pierced  the  brain  of  the  Swedish  king,  Decem- 
ber 11,  1718,  put  an  end  to  the  projects  of  his  minister;  and, 
a  few  months  after,  the  Swedes  brought  him  to  trial  and  cut 
off  his  head  for  the  double  crime  of  inflating  their  paper  and 
debasing  their  coin.  It  was  from  the  Baron  Henri  de  Goertz 
that  Voltaire  derived  part  of  the  information  which  enabled 
him,  by  and  by,  to  write  his  "  History  of  Charles  XII."  All 
was  fish  that  came  to  the  net  of  this  young  man,  ever  curious 
to  know  the  more  hidden  causes  of  public  events. 

He  was  "suspect."  The  bullet  just  mentioned  had  the 
most  surprising  and  remote  effects.  It  shut  up  the  Duchess 
du  Maine  and  her  court  in  the  Bastille,  and  it  was  among  the 
causes  of  Voltaire's  receiving  a  polite  official  intimation  in 
May,  1719,  that  he  had  better   pass  the  fine  season    in  the 

1  16  St.  Simon,  259,  Paris,  1877. 


132  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

country.  The  public,  not  the  regent,  believed  him  to  be  the 
author  of  the  "  Philippiques  ; "  he  had  been  an  open  fre- 
quenter of  the  society  of  intriguers  who  surrounded  the  bed 
of  the  Duchess  du  Maine ;  he  had  been  a  comrade  of  the 
beheaded  Goertz.  It  was  enough.  A  storm  was  heard  one 
djiy  crashing  along  the  horizon,  filling  Paris  with  dust  and 
noise.  "  The  kingdom  of  heaven,  too"  said  he,  "  must  have 
fallen  into  regency  ; "  and,  with  this  light  word  to  amuse  the 
saloons  he  left  behind  him,  he  took  his  unfinished  play  and  his 
unfinished  poem  with  him,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  year  in 
the  provinces.  "  At  present,"  he  writes  to  the  Marquise  de 
Mimeure,  "I  am  at  Villars.  I  pass- my  life  from  chateau  to 
chateau." 

Villars  was  the  country-house  of  the  veteran  marshal  of 
Louis  XIV. 's  Liter  wars,  the  Duke  of  Villars,  a  personage  of 
great  note  and  splendor  during  the  regency.  The  new  play  of 
"  Artemire "  did  not  advance  rapidly  under  the  roof  of  this 
old  soldier.  Again  our  inquisitive  author  had  daily  access  to 
one  of  the  sources  of  history,  and  again  a  public  man  found  in 
him  a  listener  untiring  and  sympathetic.  j\Iany  of  the  most 
effective  anecdotes  in  Voltaire's  "  History  of  the  Age  of  Louis 
XIV."  are  preceded  b}',  "I  have  often  heard  the  Marshal  de 
Villars  say,"  or,  "  The  Marshal  de  Villars  assured  me  ; "  and 
it  was  during  this  and  subsequent  summers,  while  going  about 
among  the  chateaux  of  France,  that  he  obtained  and  recorded 
those  anecdotes.  The  veteran  loved  to  fight  his  campaigns 
over  again,  quite  as  well  as  his  guest  loved  to  hear  him  do  so. 
-  But  it  was  not  this  that  retarded  the  new  play.  The  Duch- 
ess de  Villars,  much  younger  than  her  husband,  a  handsome, 
luxurious  woman,  had  accepted  it  as  her  vocation  to  disarm 
the  jealousy  arising  from  her  husband's  too  rapid  promotion, 
by  being  agreeable  to  all  the  world.  It  was  she  who  had  sum- 
moned Voltaire  to  her  box  on  the  opening  night  of  his 
'•  Q^^dipe,"  and  been  gracious  to  him  in  the  susceptible  hour 
of  his  triumph.  She  was  too  agreeable  to  him.  He  was  fas- 
cinated. He  conceived  for  her  "a  grand  passion,"  which  for 
some  months,  as  it  appears,  absorbed  and  confused  his  life, 
suspending  even  the  power  to  labor,  his  usual  resource  in  all 
times  of  trouble.  She  played  with  him,  tradition  reports ; 
never  returning  his  love,  but  permitting  him  to  hope  and  Ian- 


FROM  CHATEAU  TO  CHATEAU.  133 

guisli.  It  cost  him  a  long  and  severe  struggle  to  conquer  this 
passion,  but  be  did  conquer  it,  and  found  relief  at  last  in  re- 
suming bis  work.  He  was  accustomed  to  express  contrition 
for  bis  weakness  on  tbis  occasion  ;  not,  indeed,  for  baving 
made  love  to  an  old  soldier's  wife  under  that  old  soldier's  own 
roof,  but  because  a  fruitless  passion  bad  caused  bim  to  lose  so 
mucb  time  !  He  wrote  to  bis  friend,  Madame  de  Mimeure,  in 
tbe  true  tone  of  tbe  disappointed  and  bopeless  lover :  — 

"  You  make  me  feel  tbat  friendsbip  is  a  thousand  times 
more  precious  than  love.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  not  at  all 
made  for  the  passions.  |l  find  something  ridiculous  in  w.y  be- 
ingf  in  love,  and  I  should  find  it  more  ridiculous  in  those  who 
should  be  in  love  with  me.  It  is  all  over.  I  renounce  it  for 
life." 

He  wrote,  also,  a  very  pretty,  but  very  saucy  epistle,  in 
verse,  to  the  object  of  bis  passion,  complaining  of  her  insensi- 
bility to  his  devotion.  He  concludes  thus  :  "  The  Future,  in 
reading  this  work,  since  it  is  made  for  you,  will  cherish  its 
delineations.  This  author,  readers  will  say,  who  painted  so 
many  charms,  had  for  his  share  only  some  little  suppers,  where 
the  guests  drank  very  freely ;  but  be  deserved  more."  All  of 
which  was  in  accord  with  Ninon  de  Lenclos's  maxim,  tbat 
"  love  is  a  pastime,  involving  no  moral  obligation," —  the  falsest 
thing,  perhaps,  which  words  ever  uttered. 

From  chateau  to  chateau.  This  expression  describes  his 
way  of  life  for  many  years,  —  nay,  for  tbe  greater  part  of  his 
existence  ;  for  be  was  near  sixty  years  of  age  before  he  was 
settled  in  a  chateau  of  his  own.  From  Villars  he  went  to 
his  old  quarters  at  the  house  of  the  Duke  of  Sully  ;  thence 
to  Villars  again  ;  often  to  the  magnificent  abode  of  the  Duke 
of  Richelieu,  filled  with  evidences  of  the  profusion  and  taste 
of  the  great  cardinal ;  going  tbe  round  of  the  great  houses ; 
always,  however,  keeping  rooms  in  Paris  for  himself  and  his 
old  comrade,  Thieriot ;  often  writing  to  bis  Paris  friends, 
both  in  prose  and  verse. 

His  enforced  absence  from  Paris  during  the  latter  half  of 
1719  saved  him  from  the  danger  of  being  drawn  into  the 
vortex  of  ruin  resulting  from  the  schemes  of  John  Law, 
inventor  of  money-making,  who  brought  upon  frugal  France 
tbe  catastrophe  of  an  inflated  currency,  one  of  the  greatest 


A 


134  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

a  nation  can  suffer.     Law  had  been  four  years  at  work  upon 
the  finances  of  the  country,  and  the  result  was  eight  months 

?*  >  of  delirium,  —  June,  1719,  to  February,  1720,  —  followed  by  a 
collapse  more  woful  and  lasting  than  any  other  country  has 
since  suffered  from  the  practice  of  Law's  methods. 

"^^  Louis  XIV.  died  in  1715,  leaving  behind  him  an  empty 
treasury,  a  vast  debt,  and  more  than  a  thousand  millions  of 
depreciated  paper,  worth  about  twenty-seven  per  cent,  of  its 
nominal  value.  Law  sold  shares  in  his  various  schemes  on 
these  terms :  one  quarter  of  the  price  in  coin  ;  three  quarters 
in  the  king's  paper,  at  its  nominal  value.  Frugal,  cautious 
France  hesitated  ;  but  Law  was  an  advertiser  of  genius,  fer- 
tile in  expedients,  unscrupulous  ;  and,  at  last,  the  shares  sold, 
and  that  great  flabby  volume  of  paper,  held  by  princes, 
lackeys,  servants,  merchants,  clerks,  everybody,  began  to 
swell,  and  went  on  swelling,  until  it  reached  par,  and,  still 
rising,  brought  a  premium,  and  people  sold  solid  family  plate 
to  get  the  means  of  buying  paper.  Our  poet  knew  not  what 
to  make  of  the  reports  that  reached  him  from  Paris.  He  had 
seen,  as  he  tells  us,  this  Scotchman  become  French  by  natu- 
ralization, from  Protestant  become  Catholic,  from  adventurer 
to  be  lord  of  fine  estates,  from  banker  to  be  minister;  he  had 
seen  him  arrive  at  the  Palais-Royal,  "  followed  by  dukes  and 
peers,  marshals  of  France  and  bishops ;  "  and,  now  that  he 
was  absent  from  Paris,  every  post  brought  tidings  more  mar- 
velous still. 

"  It  is  a  fine  thing,  my  dear  friend  [he  wrote  to  his  little  De 
Genonville,  from  the  chateau  of  Villars],  to  come  into  the  country, 
while  Plutus  is  turning  every  head  in  town.  Have  you  really  be- 
come all  lunatics  at  Paris  ?  I  hear  nothing  but  millions  spoken  of. 
They  say  that  all  who  were  well  off  are  in  misery,  and  that  all 
the  beggars  swim  in  riches.  Is  it  a  reality?  Is  it  a  chimera? 
Has  half  the  nation  found  the  philosopher's  stone  in  paper-mills  ?  Is 
Law  a  god,  a  scoundrel,  or  a  quack  who  poisons  with  the  drug 
which  he  distributes  to  all  the  world  ?  Are  people  content  with 
imaginary  wealth?  It  is  a  chaos  which  I  cannot  see  through,  and 
of  which,  I  imagine,  you  understand  nothing.  For  my  part,  I  give 
myself  up  to  no  other  chimeras  than  those  of  poetry." 

A  few  months  later,  when  the  mania  to  "realize  "  had  sup- 
planted  the  mania  to  speculate,  the  true  character  of  these 


TROM  CHATEAU  TO  CHATEAU.  135 

operations  was  revealed.  One  hundred  thousand  persons,  it 
was  computed,  were  ruined  ;  business  in  France  lay  paralyzed ; 
and  moral  harm  was  done,  from  which  the  world  has  suffered 
ever  since.  A  new  disease  was  generated  by  John  Law,  which 
occasionally  rages  in  every  land  like  an  epidemic,  the  accursed 
itch  of  getting  wealth  by  a  rise  in  values,  by  "corners,"  and 
other  similar  devices.  A  memorial  of  that  time  is  the  city 
of  New  Orleans,  founded  in  1718  by  Law's  company,  and 
named  by  him  in  honor  of  the  regent.  The  Pitt  diamond, 
that  still  glistens  among  the  national  jewels  of  France,  where 
it  is  called  "the  Regent,"  is  also  a  memento  of  John  Law, 
who  persuaded  the  virtuous  Duke  of  St.  Simon  to  recom- 
mend the  regent  to  buy  it  for  two  millions  of  francs.  With 
how  little  wisdom  great  kingdoms  were  governed  !  The  re- 
gent, strange  to  say,  objected  to  make  this  purchase,  on  the 
ground  that  the  country  was  deep  in  debt  and  could  scarcely 
pay  its  troops.  Stranger  to  say,  St.  Simon,  one  of  the  few 
disinterested  and  irreproachable  gentlemen  about  the  court, 
was  vehement  for  the  purchase.  He  admitted  that  a  large 
number  of  persons  to  whom  the  government  was  indebted 
were  suffering  for  want  of  their  money,  and  he  praised  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  for  sympathizing  with  them  ;  but  he  main- 
tained that  the  finances  of  "the  greatest  king  in  Europe" 
ought  not  to  be  managed  like  those  of  a  private  person.  The 
honor  of  the  crown  must  be  considered,  and  an  opportunity, 
which  could  not  return,  of  acquii'ing  a  priceless  gem  that 
would  "  efface  "  the  diamonds  of  all  Europe  ought  not  to  be 
let  slip.  It  would  be  a  glory  for  the  regency  that  would 
endure  forever.  The  regent  yielded  ;  and,  to  his  surprise, 
as  well  as  oui's,  the  public  applauded  the  acquisition.  The 
patriotic  Duke  of  St.  Simon,  to  his  dying  da}^  cherished  it 
among  his  dearest  recollections  that  it  was  he,  and  no  other 
man,  who  had  persuaded  the  Regent  of  France  to  buy  (on 
credit)  a  diamond  as  large  as  a  Queen  Claude  plum,  nearly 
round,  colorless,  flawless,  spotless,  weighing  nearly  five  hun- 
dred grains.  He  styles  it  "  an  illustrious  purchase  "  {une  em- 
plette  illustre)} 

The  Law  mania  was  at  an  end  in  February,  1720,  when 
"Voltaire  was  allowed  to  remain  at  Paris  to  superintend  the 

1 14  St.  Simon,  13.     Paris,  1877. 


136  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

rehearsals  of  his  new  play,  "  Artemire."  He  pronounced  the 
epitaph  of  "  the  System,"  as  Law's  finance  was  called,  when 
he  remarked  that  "  paper  was  now  reduced  to  its  intrinsic 
value."  1 

The  curtain  rose  upon  "  Artemire  "  for  the  first  time  Feb- 
ruary 13,  1720,  at  the  worst  moment  of  the  collapse,  to  a 
house  yielding  five  thousand  one  hundred  and  sixty-seven 
francs.  The  play  had  been  read  at  Sully,  at  Villars,  and  else- 
where, with  the  applause  invariably  bestowed  by  friendly  cir- 
cles upon  works  submitted  to  their  judgment.  The  Abbe  de 
Bussi  attended  a  reading  of  the  play  by  the  first  actress  of  the 
time,  Madame  Lecouvreur,  and  cried  to  such  an  extent  that 
he  caught  a  cold  from  his  own  tears.  The  friends  of  the  author 
were  present  in  force.  Happily  for  art,  the  public,  just  mas- 
ter of  us  all,  has  no  friends  ;  but  pays  its  money,  and  lets  the 
author  know,  to  an  ■  absolute  certainty,  whether  it  has  or  has 
not  received  an  equivalent  in  jjleasure.  "  I  told  the  author," 
says  a  letter  of  the  day  (Brossette  to  J.  B.  Rousseau),  "  that 
this  tragedy,  in  which  he  had  nothing  to  depend  on  but  his 
0"wii  genius,  would  not  have  the  destiny  of  his  '  Q^dipe.'  It  is 
too  much  work  at  once,  especially  for  a  young  man,  to  have 
to  invent  the  plot,  the  characters,  the  sentiments,  and  the  ar- 
rangement, to  say  nothing  of  the  versification."  And  so  it 
proved.  The  opening  lines,  melodious  and  strong,  were  ap- 
plauded :  — 

"  Oui,  tons  ces  conquerants  rassembles  sur  ce  bord, 
Soldats  sous  Alexandre  et  rois  apres  sa  mo  it, 
Fatigues  de  forfaits,  et  lasses  de  la  guerre, 
Oat  rendu  le  repos  qu'ils  otaient  a  la  terre."  ^ 

The  passage  opened  the  play  happily,  and  seemed  to  prom- 
ise a  worthy  presentation  of  a  great  period.  But  the  story 
was  fatally  defective,  and  could  not  interest.  The  action  was 
slow,  the  characters  were  hateful,  the  heroine  unattractive,  the 
hero  absent.  Powerful  passages  and  epigrammatic  lines  can- 
not retain  attention,  nor  long  disarm  censure.  Before  the  end 
of  the  first  act,  ominous  hisses  were  heard ;  and  during  one  of 
the  later  scenes  the  noise  and  contention  were  so  violent  that 

1  Duvernet,  chapter  iv. 

^  "  Yes,  all  these  conquerors  assembled  on  this  shore,  soldiers  under  Alexander 
and  kings  after  his  death,  sated  with  crimes  and  tired  of  war,  have  given  back 
the  repose  of  which  they  deprived  the  earth." 


FROM  CHATEAU  TO  CHATEAU.  137 

the  author — so  tradition  reports  —  sprang  from  his  box  to  the 
stage,  and  addressed  the  spectators.  As  soon  as  he  was  recog- 
nized, we  are  told,  the  confusion  subsided,  and  the  rest  of  the 
play  was  listened  to  without  interruption.  He  perceived, 
however,  as  soon  as  he  saw  his  play  through  the  eyes  of  an 
audience,  that  the  story  was  weak  beyond  remedy,  and  he  re- 
solved to  withdraw  the  piece  from  the  stage.  The  mother  of 
the  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  was  well  disposed  towards  him,  and 
to  whom  he  had  dedicated  his  first  play,  desired  to  see  it  per- 
formed again.  He  employed  ten  days  in  altering  it.  The 
piece  was  better  received  than  before,  and  was  repeated  eight 
times,  with  some  applause,  to  diminishing  audiences  ;  until,  on 
the  8th  of  March,  1720,  it  was  presented  for  the  last  time  to  a 
house  of  two  thousand  three  hundred  and  fifty-three  francs. 
The  stringency  of  the  times  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with  the  failure.  The  author,  however,  refrained  from  pub- 
lishing his  piece,  used  some  of  its  lines  in  other  plays,  and  left 
nothing  of  "  Artemire  "  but  fragments  and  scenes. 

The  regent  had  discovered,  meanwhile,  the  true  author  of 
"  Les  Philippiques,"  and  was  inclined,  as  it  seems,  to  atone  for 
exiling  the  wrong  poet.  Voltaire  caused  some  cantos  of  "  La 
Henriade  "  to  be  copied  for  him  in  Thieriot's  best  handwrit- 
ing ;  and,  besides  accepting  these,  the  regent  heard  the  poet 
himself  read  some  passages  of  the  poem.  The  partial  failure 
of  his  play  may  have  abated  his  self-confidence  a  little,  and 
made  him  over-sensitive  to  criticism ;  for  it  was  at  this  period 
that,  on  hearing  some  friends  criticise  with  unusual  freedom 
his  "  Henriade,"  he  suddenly  cried  out,  "  It  is  only  fit  to  be 
burned,  then,"  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire.  The  President  Hd- 
nault,  who  was  one  of  the  critics  on  this  occasion,  relates  what 
followed  :  — 

"  I  ran  after  him,  and  drew  the  manuscript  from  the  midst 
of  the  flames,  saying  that  I  had  done  more  than  the  heirs  of 
Virgil  when  they  refrained  from  burning  the  J^neid,  as  Vir- 
gil had  recommended,  since  I  had  snatched  from  the  fire  '  La 
Henriade,'  which  Voltaire  was  going  to  burn  with  his  own 
hands.  If  I  wished,  I  might  glorify  this  action  by  recalling 
to  mind  that  beautiful  picture  by  Raphael,  in  the  Vatican, 
which  represents  Augustus  preventing  Virgil  from  burning  the 
J^neid.     But  I  am  not  Augustus,  and  Raphael  is  no  more." 


138  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

H^nault  handed  the  manuscript  back  to  the  author,  saying, 
"  Do  not  think  the  poem  better  than  the  hero  whom  you  cele- 
brate. Despite  his  faults,  he  was  a  great  king  and  the  best  of 
men."  So  "  La  Henriade  "  was  saved.  "  Do  you  remember," 
the  president  wrote,  years  after,  "  that  your  poem  cost  me  a 
pair  of  lace  ruffles  ?  " 

Voltaire's  friend  and  comrade,  De  Gdnonville,  whom  he  had 
known  in  the  days  when  both  were  copying  law  papers  in  the 
office  of  the  solicitor  Alain,  died  suddenly  this  spring,  to  Vol- 
taire's lasting  sorrow.  The  Duchess  of  Villars,  to  distract  his 
mind  from  sombre  thoughts,  took  him  away  with  her  to  her 
country-house,  which  was  always  full  of  company  in  the  fine 
season,  and  thus  he  resumed  his  life  of  wandering  from  chateau 
to  chateau.  From  Villars  he  wrote  in  June  to  Fontenelle,  an 
amusing  letter,  —  half  in  prose,  half  in  verse,  —  in  which  he 
tells  the  veteran  author  that  his  work  on  the  "  Plurality  of 
Worlds  "  was  keeping  the  ladies  out-of-doors  a  great  part  of 
the  night  observing  the  stars,  much  to  the  displeasure  of  the 
gentlemen,  who  were  obliged  to  humor  and  accompany  them. 
"  As  we  pass  the  night,"  he  added,  "  in  observing  the  stars,  we 
greatly  neglect  the  sun,  not  returning  his  visit  until  he  has  run 
two  thirds  of  his  course."  He  did  not  forget  the  interest  ex- 
cited in  the  gay  company  of  the  chateau  by  Fontenelle's  pop- 
ularization of  astronomical  science. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

BEGINNINGS  OF  HIS  FORTUNE.  '^ 

Feom  tLe  gay  and  brilliant  life  of  the  chateau  he  was  sum-| 
moned,  in  December,  1721,  to  the  bedside  of  his  father,  dying | 
of  dropsy  in  Paris.     The  incongruous  family  of  the  Arouets 
was  once  more  assembled  in  their  old  home,  —  Armand,  Fran- 
9ois-Marie,  their  sister  Marguerite,  and  her  husband,  M.  Mig- 
not,  of  the  Chamber  of  Accounts.     The  family  letters  of  Vol- 
taire have  not  been  preserved,   and,  consequently,  we  know 
little  of  the  terms  upon  which  these  ill-assorted  relations  lived. 
Armand,  the  elder  son,  a  bachelor  thirty-eight  years  of  age, 
had  developed  into  a_xdigionistof  the  most  credulous  and  ab- 
ject type.     He  was  one  of  the~Revots  of  lEaTage,  who  wore 
hair  shirts,  fasted  in  Lent  to  a  perilous  extreme,  believed  in  the 
"  miracles  "  of  the  day,  and  gave  money  profusely  to  any  Tar-  ^ 
tuffe  who  knew  how  to  play  his  part.     Francois,  on  the  con-  S''^ 
trary,  had  become  the  man-of-the-world  of  the  period,  sobered 
a  little  by  his  twenty-eight  years,  as  well  as  by  his  arduous, 
though  desultory,  pursuit  of  his  vocation.     Their  sister  was  a 
married   woman  with  children,  always  dear  to   her  younger 
brother. 

What  the  old  man  thought  at  this  time  of  his  fool  in  prose 
and  his  fool  in  verse  we  can  infer  from  the  manner  in  which 
he  disposed  of  his  property.  December  29,  1721,  two  daysX, 
before  his  death,  he  resigned  his  office  in  the  Chamber  of  Ac- 
counts, then  yielding  thiiteen  thousand  francs  a  year,  to  Ar- 
mand, his  eldest  child  ;  charging  him,  however,  as  it  seems, 
with  part  of  the  portions  of  his  other  children.  To  Voltaire 
he  bequeathed  property  yielding  an  annual  revenue  of  four 
thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  Both  these  sons  had 
reached  the  years  of  discretion,  but,  as  their  father  thought, 
only  the  years,  —  not  the  discretion.  He  feared  that  his  fool 
in  prose  would  waste  his  substance  upon  Jansenist  devotees, 


140  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

and  that  his  fool  in  verse  would  waste  his  life  among  the 
grandees  whom  he  amused.  He  accordingly  confided  his 
estate  to  a  trustee,  M.  de  Nicolai,  president  of  the  Chamber 
of  Accounts,  and  gave  him  unusual  powers.  He  made  him, 
in  fact,  guardian  of  his  sons,  as  well  as  trustee  of  his  prop- 
erty ;  and  M.  de  Nicolai,  we  are  told,  "  adopted  both  the 
brothers,  and  continued  to  regard  Voltaire  as  his  son  "  long 
I  after  his  duty  as  trustee  was  performed.^ 

These  arrangements  made,  the  old  man,  on  the  first  day  of 
the  year,  1722,  breathed  his  last,  and  on  the  next  day,  as  the 
parish  record  shows,  he  was  followed  to  the  grave  in  Paris  by 
his  two  sons  and  his  son-in-law. 
C  There  was,  as  Voltaire  intimates,  a  brief  revival  of  tender- 
ness among  the  members  of  the  family  on  this  occasion,  fol- 
lowed by  increased  estrangement  of  the  brothers.  M.  de  Ni- 
eolai,  their  guardian,  was  a  personage  of  old  descent  and  high 
rank,  one  of  tlie  noblesse  de  robe,  not  accustomed  to  be  in 
haste,  and  he  was  four  years  in  giving  each  his  share  of  the 
paternal  estate.  Voltaire,  as  his  letters  show,  fretted  under 
this  delay,  threatened  an  appeal  to  the  law,  seems  actually  to 
have  brought  a  suit  of  some  kind  ;  and,  although  he  came  to 
his  inheritance  at  last,  his  circumstances  for  the  time  were  not 
improved  by  his  father's  death.  He  had  even  lost  the  possible 
asylum  of  his  father's  house,  and,  as  yet,  possessed  no  secure 
status  of  his  own.  The  regent,  probably,  had  this  view  of  the 
case  presented  to  his  consideration.  A  few  days  after  the 
funeral  of  the  poet's  father,  "  Le  Mercure,"  a  Paris  gazette  of 
the  time,  published  the  following  notice  :  — 

"  M.  Arouet  de  Voltaire,  the  death  of  whose  father  was  re- 
cently announced,  has  obtained  from  the  king,  through  the 
recommendation  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  a  pension  of  two 
thousand  francs.  His  poem  of  Henry  IV.  will  appear  very 
soon,  and  it  is  confidently  expected  that  the  work  when  printed 
will  sustain  the  reputation  which  it  has  acquired  from  perusals 
of  the  manuscript." 

Here  was  something  at  last  which  the  deceased  notary  him- 
self would  have  confessed  to  be  solid,  if  insvifficient.  The  re- 
cipient of  the  royal  bounty  was  aware  of  its  insufficiency,  and 
was  much  employed,  from  this  time  onward,  in  improving  his 

1  1  Maynard,  102. 


BEGINNINGS   OF   HIS   FORTUNE.  141 

circumstances.  JThe  father,  indeed,  as  fathers  often  do,  mis- 
interpreted both  his  sons  ;  for  Arinand  acquired  a  very  good 
estate,  a  share  of  which  his  brother  inherited,  and  Francois,  as 
all  the  world  knows,  became  the  richest  man  of  letters  that 
ever  lived.  He  had  discovered  at  twenty-eight  that  (to  use 
the  language  of  the  late  Lord  Lytton)  "  the  man  who  would 
raise  himself  to  be  a  power  must  begin  by  securing  a  pecun- 
iary independence." 

"  I  am  often  asked  [Voltaire  writes  in  his  "  Memoires  "]  by  what 
art  I  have  come  to  live  hke  a  farmer-general,  and  it  is  good  to  tell 
it,  in  order  that  my  example  may  be  of  service.  I  saw  so  many  men 
of  letters  poor  and  despised  that  I  made  up  my  mind  a  long  time 
ago  that  I  would  not  increase  their  number.  In  France  a  man  must 
be  anvil  or  hammer  :  T  was  born  anvil.  A  slender  patrimony  be- 
comes  smaller  every  day,  because  in  the  long  run  everything  increases 
in  price,  and  government  often  taxes  both  income  and  money.  It  is 
necessary  to  watch  the  operations  which  the  ministry,  ever  in  arrears 
and  ever  on  the  change,  makes  in  the  finances  of  the  state.  There  is 
always  some  one  of  these  by  which  a  private  person  can  profit  without 
incurring  obligation  to  any  one ;  and  nothing  is  so  agreeable  as  to  be 
the  author  of  your  own  fortune.  The  first  step  costs  some  pains  ;  the 
others  are  easy.  You  must  be  economical  in  your  youth,  and  you 
find  yourself  in  your  old  age  in  possession  of  a  capital  that  surprises 
you  ;  and  that  is  the  time  of  life  when  fortune  is  most  necessary  to 
us."  1 

Particulars  of  the  transactions  by  which  he  profited  so  well 
will  meet  us  from  time  to  time.  For  a  bachelor  who  lived  in 
other  people's  chateaux,  he  was  already  in  tolerable  circum- 
stances, and  probably  never  spent,  after  his  father's  death,  his 
whole  income.  He  generally  had  capital  at  command  with 
which  to  avail  himself  of  any  chance  which  the  exigencies  of 
a  ministry  or  the  needs  of  an  individual  might  throw  in  his 
way.  He  liked  to  lend  money  to  a  lord  of  good  estate  upon 
interest  at  ten  per  cent.,  and  had  no  objection  to  buying  an 
annuity  at  a  rate  favorable  to  himself,  from  the  apparent  fra- 
giUty  of  his  constitution.  The  list  of  his  debtors  included  at 
length  a  considerable  number  of  the  dukes,  princes,  and  other 
grand  seigneurs,  at  whose  houses  he  was  frequently  a  guest, 
and  where  he  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  the  entertaining  "  lit- 
tle Arouet,"  a  poet  of  promise,  who  arranged  moonV\g\\i  fetes 
for  the  ladies,  and  supplied  original  verses  for  the  same. 

1  2  CEuvres,  80, 


142  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

The  owners  of  the  world  are  they  who  strongly  desire  to 

own  ;  and  this  is  the  only  trait  common  to  them  all.    Voltaire 

possessed  this  qualification,  and  was  able  to  gratify  it  without 

Po   '^f  ,        a  loss  of  time  fatal  to  his  proper  pursuits.     He  usually  spent 

c4.      ^*-     Wery  little  money,  and  always  carefully  invested  his  surplus, 

j  —  a  process  which,  as  he  remarks,  yields    surprising  results 

Im  a  long  life. 

He  pushed  his  fortune  at  this  time  in  evei-y  way  open  to 
him.  Cardinal  Dubois,  notorious  for  his  debauchery  and  pro- 
fusion, who  held  benefices  and  civil  posts  that  yielded  him  a 
million  and  a  half  of  francs  per  annum,  was  the  regent's  first 
minister  and  confidant.  A  bad  minister  and  worse  man,  he 
was  not  as  pernicious  to  France  as  the  austerely  moral  priests 
who  made  Louis  XIV.  expel  the  Huguenots  and  loose  the 
Bull  Unigenitus.  He  had  some  taste  in  the  arts,  and  was  not 
inclined  to  make  the  interests  of  France  quite  subordinate  to 
those  of  the  church.  Voltaire  paid  diligent  court  to  him,  and 
offered  him  his  services  ;  having  then,  as  always,  a  taste  for 
public  employment.  The  cardinal  gave  him  a  piece  of  work 
to  do,  the  relation  of  which  presents  neither  of  them  in  an 
heroic  light.  It  was  to  unearth  (^deterrer  is  Voltaire's  OAvn 
word)  a  French  Jew,  Levi  Salomon  by  name,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  be  a  spy  of  the  emperor,  and,  perhaps,  charged  with 
designs  hostile  to  France.  Our  tragic  poet  got  upon  his 
track,  drew  up  a  "M^moire"  concerning  him,  giving  an  ac- 
count of  his  past  career  and  present  condition,  but  not  un- 
earthing any  very  valuable  information. 

"  Monseigneur  [he  writes  to  the  cardinal,  May  28,  1722],  I  send 
your  Eminence  a  little  memorandum  of  what  I  have  heen  able  to  dis- 
cover touching  the  Jew  of  whom  I  had  the  honor  to  speak  to  you.  If 
your  Eminence  judges  the  thing  important,  shall  I  presume  to  suggest 
that  a  Jew,  being  of  no  country  except  the  one  in  which  he  makes 
money,  can  as  well  betray  the  king  to  the  emperor  as  the  emperor 
to  the  king  ?....!  can,  more  easily  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  pass  into  Germany  under  the  pretext  of  visiting  J.  B.  Rous- 
seau, to  whom  I  wrote  two  montlis  ago  that  I  wished  to  show  my 
poem  to  Prince  Eugene  and  to  himself  [the  poet  Rousseau  being  still 
in  exile,  with  asylum  at  the  court  of  Prince  Eugene].  I  have  even 
received  some  letters  from  the  prince,  in  one  of  which  he  does  me  the 
honor  to  say  that  he  should  be  very  glad  to  see  me.  If  these  consid- 
erations could  induce  your  Eminence  to  employ  me  in  something,  I 


BEGINNINGS   OF  HIS  FORTUNE.  143 

entreat  you  to  believe  that  you  would  not  be  dissatisfied  with  me,  and 
that  1  should  be  eternally  grateful  for  being  allowed  to  serve  your 
Eminence." 

This  was  followed  by  the  memorandum  referred  to,  from 
which  we  learn  that  Levi  Salomon  had  been  employed  by 
many  ministers  as  a  spy ;  that  he  had  been  a  spy  upon  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough,  and  probably  had  a  good  many  secrets 
worth  knowing.  The  cardinal  appears  to  have  given  the  poet 
a  roving  commission  to  visit  Germany,  taking  the  old  French 
city  of  Cambrai  on  the  way,  of  which  Cardinal  Dubois  was 
archbishop.  There  was  to  be  a  great  meeting  of  diplomatists 
at  Cambrai  this  year,  for  the  settlement  of  affairs  in  Europe 
which  had  been  left  unsettled  by  the  last  peace.  Voltaire  was 
to  attend  this  important  congress,  holding  apparently  some 
commission  or  license  from  the  cardinal  archbishop  of  Cam- 
brai, either  general  or  special,  private  or  public.  Cambrai  is 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  northeast  of  Paris,  near  to  what  is 
now  Belgium,  and  on  the  high  road  to  Brussels. 

All  the  continental  governments  appear  then  to  have  placed 
much  dependence  upon  the  spy  system,  and  under  Dubois 
Paris  swarmed  with  spies.  In  his  later  works  Voltaire  men- 
tions the  fact  with  reprobation ;  as  well  he  might,  for  he  was 
indebted  to  the  spy  Beauregard  for  his  eleven  months  in  the 
Bastille.  That  very  Beauregard,  spy  as  he  was,  held  a  captain's 
commission  in  a  noted  regiment  of  the  royal  army,  which  im- 
plied noble  lineage  ;  and  Voltaire,  as  we  have  seen,  did  not 
disdain  to  act  as  a  spy  upon  a  spy.  While  he  was  at  Ver- 
sailles this  summer,  going  about  among  the  cabinets  preparing 
for  his  journey  and  making  interest  for  his  poem,  he  had  a 
startling  insight  into  the  spy  system,  which  led  to  conse- 
quences far  more  painful  than  a  polite  detention  at  the  king's 
chateau  of  the  Bastille.  He  was  in  the  rooms  of  M.  Claude 
Leblanc,  the  minister  of  war,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
members  of  the  regent's  administration,  a  statesman  of  long 
experience  and  wide  renown,  who  is  remembered  to  this  day 
for  some  improvements  introduced  by  him  into  tlie  military 
system  of  France.  Who  should  enter  but  Captain  Beaure- 
gard, as  if  he  were  a  guest  invited  to  dinner  !  The  minister 
received  the  spy  with  more  than  distinction,  —  with  familiar- 
ity. The  irascible  poet,  at  this  astounding  spectacle,  lost  bis 
self-control,  and  said,  among  other  things, — 


14i  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

"  I  was  well  aware  that  spies  were  paid  for  their  services, 
but  I  did  not  know  that  their  recompense  was  to  eat  at  the 
minister's  own  table  !  " 

He  withdrew,  leaving  Beauregard  furious,  who  at  once 
declared  his  purpose  to  be  avenged.  "  Then  manage  it  so," 
said  the  minister,  "  that  no  one  will  see  anything  of  it."  ^ 

Shortly  after,  as  Voltaire  was  crossmg  one  of  the  bridges 
in  a  sedan  chair,  Beauregard  met  him  and  assaulted  him 
with  a  cane,  inflicting  many  blows,  and  leaving  a  mark 
upon  his  face.  The  assailant  immediately  after  rejoined  his 
regiment  in  the  country.  Voltaire  entered  a  complaint  in  a 
criminal  court,  and  pursued  his  criminal  with  a  sustained  vi- 
vacity all  his  own,  and  never  rested  till  he  had  him  in  prison. 
The  minister  Leblanc,  falling  into  discredit  in  the  nick  of 
time,  the  spy  remained  in  confinement  for  several  months, 
and  we  see  Voltaire  directing  the  prosecution  against  him 
from  remote  places,  "  ruining  himself  in  expense,"  until,  as 
we  conjecture,  Leblanc,  returning  to  favor,  was  able  to  rescue 
his  agent  so  far  as  to  change  his  prison  into  exile.  The 
poet  speaks  of  Beauregard  as  "  the  man  of  the  handcuffs," 
which  is  probably  a  figure  of  speech.  The  important  fact  is, 
that  he  sought  redress  from  the  laws,  and  sought  it  with  un- 
flagging energy  till  he  obtained  it  in  some  degree.  Redress  is 
of  course  im^^ossibM  for  an  injury  so  gross,  and  Voltaire, 
during  his  long  life  of  battle  with  the  powers  of  this  world, 
was  never  allowed  long  to  forget  that  he  had  been  beaten  by 
a  spy  on  the  bridge  of  Sevres. 

Once,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  he  was  taken  for  a  spy  by 
some  soldiers  of  the  regiment  of  the  Prince  de  Conti.  "  The 
prince,  their  colonel,"  he  adds,  "  happened  to  pass  by,  and 
invited  me  to  supper,  instead  of  having  me  hanged."  If  it 
had  been  Levi  Salomon  who  had  pointed  him  out  to  the 
soldiers  as  a  spy,  and  had  showed  them  his  letter  and  memo- 
randum to  Cardinal  Dubois,  the  Prince  de  Conti  would  not 
the  less  have  invited  him  to  supper,  but  it  is  not  clear  how 
the  accused  poet  could  have  explained  away  the  charge  to  the 

soldiers. 

1  2  Memoires  de  M.  Marais,  302. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

JOURNEY  TO  HOLLAND. 

He  did  not  set  out  alone  upon  this  long  and  interesting 
journey.  One  of  the  grand  ladies  whom  he  had  met  in  coun- 
try chateaux,  the  Marquise  de  Rupelmonde,  chanced  to  be 
going  to  Holland  this  summer,  and  he  accepted  her  invitation 
to  take  a  seat  in  her  post-chaise.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
marshal  of  France,  an  old  soldier  of  the  wars  of  the  late 
king,  now  governor  of  Metz.  She  was  also  the  widow  of  a 
Flemish  nobleman,  who  had  fallen  in  battle,  after  a  display 
of  valor  that  gave  his  name  wide  celebrity.  Young,  rich, 
agreeable,  and  thus  doubly  distinguished,  she  was  appointed, 
in  1725,  one  of  the  dames  de  palais  to  the  coming  queen  of 
France.  At  present  slie  had  interests  in  the  Low  Countries, 
and  appears  to  have  still  kept  an  establishment  at  La_Hagiie. 
Cambrai  was  on  the  high-road  to  Holland,  and  there  our  poet 
may  have  had  something  to  do  for  Cardinal  Dubois.  Brussels 
could  be  reached  by  a  slight  detour^  where  he  desired  to  meet 
"  our  master,"  Jean-Baptiste  Rousseau,  as  he  styled  the  exiled 
poet,  and  to  read  to  him  some  cantos  of  the  new  poem.  At 
the  Hague,  which  had  not  yet  ceased  to  be  a  type-foundry 
and  book  mart  of  Europe,  he  had  important  business  of  his 
own.  It  was  a  piece  of  his  usual  good  luck  to  find  traveling 
his  road  a  grande  dame  who  loved  his  poetry,  relished  his 
conversation,  and  paid  all  expenses. 

We  know  one  of  the  chief  subjects  of  conversation  between 
the  young  widow  and  the  young  bachelor,  as  they  traveled 
northward  in  the  pleasant  days  of  July,  1722.  The  lady  had  Ni> 
asked  him  what  she  ought  to  think  concerning  the  vexed  sub- 
ject of  religion.  It  was  on  this  journey  that  he  put  the  sub- 
stance of  his  answer  in  the  form-  of  an  Epistle  in  verse,  ad- 
dressed to  her  under  the  name  of  the  "beautiful  Uranie." 
This  poem  is  noted  as  being  the  first  of  his  works  in  which 

VOL.  I.  10 


146  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

he  gives  with  any  fullness  his  opinions  upon  religion.  It  is 
simply  an  elegant  and  very  spirited  statement  of  the  deism  of 
that  century,  the  chief  position  of  which  was  that  the  prodi- 
gies related  in  the  sacred  books  of  all  religions  are  to  be  taken 
as  legends,  not  as  history.  As  legends,  they  possess  value  and 
beauty ;  regarded  as  histoiy,  they  become  pernicious  and  in- 
finitely absurd.  This  Epistle  is  very  much  in  the  style  of 
that  "  Moisade  "  taught  him  in  childhood  by  the  Abbd  de 
Ch^teauneuf.  He  dwelt  upon  the  folly  of  supposing  that  the 
Creator  of  men  had  "  drowned  the  fathers  and  died  for  the 
children,"  without  having  reclaimed  the  race  from  wickedness 
by  either  method.  Upon  this  theme  he  enlarged  in  more  than 
a  hundred  melodious  lines,  and,  doubtless,  added  many  effect- 
ive points  in  conversation  on  the  road.  One  of  his  topics 
was  the  account  given  in  the  Gospels  of  the  life  and  death  of 
Jesus ;  and  this  he  treated  with  a  freedom  which,  in  1722, 
niust  have  been  startling  to  a  lady  whose  mind,  he  intimates, 
was  not  yet  made  up  :  — 

"  He  sprang  from  a  people  obscure,  imbecile,  unstable,  in- 
sensate lovers  of  superstition,  conquered  by  their  neighbors, 
crouching  in  slavery  and  the  eternal  contempt  of  other  na- 
tions. The  Son  of  God,  God  himself,  makes  himself  the 
countryman  of  this  odious  people.  Born  of  a  Jewess,  he 
creeps  under  his  mother  ;  he  suffers  under  her  eyes  the  infirm- 
ities of  infancy.  Long  a  low  workman,  plane  in  hand,  his 
early  days  are  lost  in  this  base  employment." 

The  narrative  is  continued  in  this  spirit,  and  then  the  poet 
descants  upon  the  vast  absurdity  of  supposing  the  Americiin 
tribes  and  other  remote  nations  to  be  consigned  to  eternal  an- 
guish for  not  being  acquainted  with  these  events.  He  con- 
cludes his  poem  by  telling  the  "  uncertain  Uranie  "  what  to 
believe  :  — 

"Believe  that  the  eternal  wisdom  of  the  Most  High  has, 
with  his  own  hand,  engraved  at  the  bottom  of  thy  heart  nat- 
/  ural  religion.     Believe  that  the  native  candor  of  thy  soul  will 

not  be  the  object  of  God's  eternal  hate.  Believe  that  before 
his  throne,  in  all  times  and  in  all  places,  the  heart  of  the  just 
person  is  precious.  Believe  that  a  modest  bonze,  a  charitable 
dervish,  finds  favor  in  his  eyes  sooner  than  a  pitiless  Jansenist 
or  an  ambitious  pontiff.  .  .  .  God  judges  us  according  to  our 
virtues,  not  our  sacrifices." 


JOURNEY   TO   HOLLAND.  147 

Doubtless  the  inexhaustible  theme  was  amply  discussed  on 
the  way  to  Carabrai,  and  probably  he  found  iu  the  lady  a 
pupil  willing  to  learn  from  his  philosophy  "  to  despise  the 
horrors  of  the  tomb  and  tlie  terrors  of  another  life." 

They  reached,  in  due  time,  the  archiepiscopal  city  of  Cara- 
brai, noted  then  for  a  magnificent  cathedral  destroyed  in  the 
Revolution,  but  known  to  us  as  having  given  a  word  to  the 
English  language,  —  cambric,  —  because  the  fabric  of  that 
name  was  first  made  there.  The  town  was  full  of  distin- 
guished company,  with  nothing  to  do,  awaiting  the  opening  of 
the  congress,  and  they  received  Madame  de  Ilupelraonde  and 
her  poet  with  enthusiasm.  Parties  were  given  in  their  honor, 
and  ladies  disputed  with  one  another  the  privilege  of  enter- 
taining them.  At  one  grand  supper,  given  by  the  wife  of  the 
French  ambassador,  the  cry  arose  that  they  must  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  "Q^dipe"  performed  the  very  next  day,  in 
the  presence  of  the  author.  There  was  a  difficulty  :  the 
Spanish  ambassador  had  already  ordered  "  Les  Plaideurs  "  of 
Racine,  and  no  diplomatist  was  willing  to  risk  offending  so 
weighty  a  personage.  Voltaire  undertook  the  task  of  in- 
ducing the  Spaniard  to  allow  the  change  desired,  and  pro- 
duced upon  the  spot  a  rhymed  petition  in  "  the  name  of  Ru- 
pelmonde."  The  petition  being  instantly  granted,  he  brought 
back  to  the  company  a  reply  in  rhyme,  also  of  his  own  com- 
position, in  which  he  informed  them  that  on  the  next  day  the 
actors  Avould  play  both  "  O^dipe "  and  its  author  ;  that  is, 
"  ffidipe,"  and,  afterwards,  the  travesty  of  the  same,  as  per- 
formed in  the  minor  theatres  of  Paris.  It  marks  the  manners 
of  that  age  that  this  response,  made  as  if  to  Madame  de  Ru- 
pelmonde,  mentioning  her  by  name,  and  read  to  the  finest 
company  in  Europe,  both  ladies  and  gentlemen,  should  have 
opened  with  as  palpable  a  double  entendre  as  language  could 
convey. 

Even  more  remarkable  was  the  letter  that  he  wrote  from 
Cambrai  to  Cardinal  Dubois ;  a  melange  of  prose  and  verse, 
of  banter  and  homage,  which  the  cardinal  allowed  to  be 
handed  about  in  Paris  drawing-rooms,  as  something  too  good 
to  be  kept  to  himself.  On  tnking  leave  of  the  cardinal  at 
Versailles,  Voltaire  is  reported  to  have  said,  "I  pray  you, 
Monseigueur,  not  to  forget  that  formerly  the  Voitures  were 


/r 


148  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

protected  by  the  Richelieus."  To  which  the  minister  is  said  to 
have  made  the  rude  reply,  "  It  is  easier  to  find  Voitures  than 
Richelieus."  Nothing  abashed,  this  young  dramatist  of  one 
success  wrote  thus  to  the  cardinal  prime  minister,  from  Cam- 
brai :  — 

"  A  beauty  whom  they  name  Rupelmonde,  with  whom  the  Loves 
and  I  run  about  the  world  of  late,  and  who  gives  law  to  us  all,  wishes 
that  on  the  instant  I  write  you.  My  muse,  as  attentive  to  please  her 
as  you,  accepts  with  transport  so  charming  an  employ. 

"  We  arrive,  Monseigneur,  in  your  metropolis,  where,  I  believe,  all 
the  ambassadors  and  all  the  cooks  of  Europe  have  given  one  another 
rendezvous.  It  seems  that  all  the  ministers  of  Germany  are  at  Cam- 
brai  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  drink  the  health  of  the  emperor. 
As  for  the  ambassadors  of  Spain,  one  of  them  hears  two  masses  a 
day,  and  the  other  directs  the  troop  of  actors.  The  English  ministers 
send  many  couriers  to  Champagne,  but  few  to  London.  For  the  rest, 
no  one  expects  your  Eminence  here.  It  is  not  thought  likely  that 
you  will  leave  the  Palais  Royal  to  come  to  visit  your  flock.  You 
would  be  too  much  annoyed,  and  we  also,  if  you  had  to  leave  the  min- 
istry for  the  apostolate. 

"  May  the  gentlemen  of  the  congress,  in  drinking  at  this  retreat, 
assure  the  peace  of  Europe  !  May  you  love  your  city,  my  lord,  and 
never  come  to  it !  I  know  that  you  can  make  homilies,  can  walk 
with  a  cross-bearer,  and  can  mumble  litanies.  Give,  give  rather  ex- 
amples to  kings  ;  unite  always  spirit  with  prudence  ;  let  your  great 
deeds  be  published  everywhere ;  make  yourself  blessed  of  France, 
without  giving  at  Cambrai  any  benedictions. 

"  Remember  sometimes,  Monseigneur,  a  man  who  has,  in  truth,  no 
other  regret  than  not  to  be  able  to  converse  with  your  Eminence  as 
often  as  he  could  desire,  and  who,  of  all  the  favors  you  can  do  him, 
regards  the  honor  of  your  conversation  as  the  most  flattering." 

This  is  the  letter  which  a  prince  of  the  church  permitted 
to  "  run  "  in  Paris  in  1722.  "  How  could  it  have  got  out  ?  " 
writes  Voltaire  to  his  trumpeter,  Thieriot;  and,  three  months 
later,  he  asks  whether  Thieriot  still  hears  his  letter  to  Cardi- 
nal Dubois  spoken  of,  and  what  is  said  of  it.^  Part  of  the 
joke  was  that  the  Archbishop  of  Cambrai  had  never  seen  Cam- 
brai ;  and  he  never  did  see  it.  The  congress,  too,  during  the 
four  years  of  its  continuance,  accomplished  nothing  but  num- 
berless fetes  and  suppers ;  and  it  may  be  that  the  design  of 
1  Lettres  Ine'dites  de  Voltaire,  page  15. 


JOURNEY  TO  HOLLAND.  149 

the  cardinal  in  letting  the  letter  escape  was  to  accustom  the 
public  to  regard  it  as  a  brilliant  nullity. 

After  five  or  six  weeks  of  gayety  and  glory  among  the  am- 
bassadors and  ladies  at  Cambrai,  we  find  him  at  Brussels, 
seventy  miles  beyond,  where  he  was  to  meet  "  our  master," 
Rousseau,  and  submit  an  epic  poem  to  his  judgment.  J.  B. 
Rousseau,  then  fifty-two  years  of  age,  was  no  longer  the  sa- 
tiric and  scoffing  Rousseau  of  other  days.  He  had  returned 
to  the  bosom  of  the  church  ;  he  was  writing  those  fine  psalms 
that  figure  in  his  later  works  ;  he  was  conspicuously  and,  as 
his  enemies  thought,  ostentatiously  religious.  It  is  not  nec- 
essary to  suppose  him  insincere,  as  French  writers  usually  do. 
Men  who  discard  religion  because  they  dislike  the  restraints 
which  it  imposes  hold  their  unbelief  by  a  very  uncertain  ten- 
ure, and  are  liable  in  the  decline  of  life  to  relapse  into  su- 
perstition. It  was  common  then  to  see  persons  who  were 
thoughtless  unbelievers  at  twenty  become  thoughtless  devo- 
tees at  fifty.  Voltaire,  on  the  contrary,  had  developed  the 
merry  license  of  his  youth  into  a  clear,  intelligent,  and  posi- 
tive rejection  of  all  the  theological  dogmas,  except  that  of  a 
Supreme  Being. 

He  was  now  in  a  country  that  swarmed  with  rosy  and  jovial 
priests,  and  he  regarded  them  with  no  more  reverence  than 
the  people  of  our  prairies  regard  locusts  and  grasshoppers. 
The  brave  old  Duchess  of  Marlborough  had  been  at  Aix  and 
Brussels  since  the  peace,  and  she  was  good  enough  to  record 
her  impressions  of  what  she  saw  there.  She  thought  she  dis- 
covered in  Flanders  the  cause  of  atheism.  It  was  the  priests' 
owning  three  quarters  of  all  the  land,  and  still  "  squeezing  " 
the  half-starved  people  for  money.  "  In  one  church  where  I 
was  lately,"  she  wrote,  "  there  were  twenty-seven  jolly -face 
priests  that  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  but  to  say  mass 
for  the  living  and  take  the  dead  souls  the  sooner  out  of  purga- 
tory by  their  prayers."  ^     Voltaire  had  an  opportunity  ere- 

1  The  duchess  writes  from  Flanders,  1712  :  "  Since  I  have  Room  I  can't  end 
without  giving  you  some  Account  how  I  pass  my  Time  in  this  Place,  which  is  ia 
visiting  Nunnerys  and  Churches,  where  I  have  heard  of  such  Marvells  and  seen 
such  ridiculous  Things  as  would  appear  to  you  incredible  if  I  should  set  ahout  to 
describe  them,  tis  so  much  beyond  all  that  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of  in  England  of 
that  Religion  which  I  am  apt  to  think  has  made  those  Atheists  that  are  in  the 
"World,  for  tis  impossible  to  see  the  Abuses  of  the  Priests  without  raising  strange 


150  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

long  of  talking  over  these  matters  with  the  duchess,  and,  we 
may  be  sure,  agreed  with  her.  Indeed,  on  the  first  day  of  his 
arrival  at  Brussels,  he  behaved  so  irreverently  at  mass  that  the 
peo)3le  were  on  the  point  of  turning  him  out  of  the  church. 
So  Rousseau  records,  and  the  culprit  himself  admits  that  his 
behavior  was  a  little  disorderly. 

The  two  poets  met,  neither  being  aware  of  the  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  the  other.  At  first  all  was  cordiality  be- 
tween them,  and  they  were  inseparable.  Voltaire,  as  I  think, 
knew  Rousseau's  innocence  of  the  charge  that  had  exiled  him, 
and  must  have  been  sensible  to  the  charm  of  his  verse.  He 
called  him  by  no  other  name  than  Master  ;  and,  besides  read- 
ing him  portions  of  "  La  Henriade,"  he  intrusted  the  precious 
manuscript  to  his  keeping  for  several  daj'S.  Rousseau  praised 
the  poem,  only  objecting  to  a  few  passages  wherein  the  Pope 
and  the  priests  were  not  treated  quite  in  the  manner  of  a  good 
Catholic,  —  passages  which  the  autlior  himself  was  striving  to 
tone  down  to  the  pitch  demanded  by  the  official  censor.  All 
was  well  between  them  until  one  fatal  day,  when  the  two  poets, 
in  the  presence  of  Madame  de  Rupelmonde,  read  to  one  an- 
other some  of  their  recent  minor  poems;  Rousseau,  his  "  Juge- 
ment  de  Pluton,"  which  ouglit  to  have  been  excellent,  for  no 
man  has  ever  employed  the  Greek  legends  more  happily  than 
he.  But  the  poet  had  a  grievance  of  ten  years'  standing,  —  his 
exile,  —  and  this  grievance  was  the  real  subject  of  the  poem. 
Who  can  treat  with  effective  grace  and  dignity  an  ancient, 
rankling  grievance  of  his  own  ?  Voltaire,  being  asked  his 
opinion  of  the  satire,  answered  truly,  "  It  is  not  in  the  style 

Thoughts  in  one's  Mind,  which  one  checks  as  soon  as  one  can,  and  I  think  tls  un- 
naturall  for  any  Body  to  have  so  monstrous  a  Notion  as  that  there  is  no  God,  if 
the  Priests  (to  get  all  the  Power  and  Mony  themselves)  did  not  act  in  the  Man- 
ner that  they  doe  in  these  Parts,  where  they  liave  three  Parts  or  four  of  all  the 
Land  in  the  Country,  and  yet  they  are  not  contented,  but  squeeze  the  poor  de- 
luded People  to  get  more,  wlio  are  really  half-starved  by  the  vast  number  of 
Holydays  in  which  they  can't  work,  and  the  Mony  they  must  pay  when  they  have 
it  for  the  Forgivenesse  of  their  Sins.  I  believe  tis  from  the  Charm  of  Power  and 
Mony  that  has  made  many  of  our  Clergymen  act  as  they  have  don  ;  but  my  Com- 
fort is,  tho  a  very  small  one,  that  if  by  their  Assistance  all  are  quit  undon  they 
will  not  bee  the  better  for  it,  there  is  such  a  vast  Number  of  Priests  that  must 
take  Place  of  them,  for  in  one  Church  where  I  was  lately  there  were  27  jolly-face 
Priests  that  had  Nothing  in  the  World  to  doe  but  to  say  Mass  for  the  living  and 
to  take  the  dead  Souls  the  sooner  out  of  Purgatory  by  their  Prayers."  (Letters 
from  Sarah,  Duchess  of  Marlborough.     London,  1875.) 


JOURNEY   TO   HOLLAND.  151 

of  our  master,  the  good  and  great  Rousseau."  The  elder  poet, 
of  course,  was  doubly  enamored  of  this  production,  and  did  not 
conceal  his  chagrin.  He  read  on  the  same  occasion  another 
poem  on  the  same  unfortunate  subject, — his  own  wrongs  and 
the  sublime  manner  in  which  he  had  borne  them.  It  was  en- 
titled, "  To  Posterity."  The  single  step  between  the  subUme 
and  the  ridiculous  was  taken  by  Rousseau  in  this  vainglorious 
ode,  and  it  drew  from  Voltaire  the  well-known  comment, 
"  That  is  an  ode,  master,  which,  in  my  opinion,  will  never 
reach  its  address."  He  was  mistaken,  it  is  true,  for  the  ode 
is  printed  every  year  or  two  in  new  editions  of  Rousseau's 
poems  ;  but  such  witticisms  sting  and  are  not  forgotten. 

"  Take  your  revenge !  "  cried  Voltaire.  "  Here  is  a  little 
poem  which  I  submit  to  the  judgment  of  the  father  of  Numa." 
It  was  the  "  Epistle  to  La  Belle  Uranie  "  mentioned  above. 
Rousseau  listened  to  the  reading  of  the  audacious  work  as  far 
as  the  passage  where  Jesus  Christ  is  introduced  as  exercising 
the  low  (Idche)  trade  of  carpenter.  Rousseau  broke  in  upon 
the  reading  at  this  point,  saying,  "  Spare  yourself,  sir,  the 
trouble  of  reading  more  ;  it  is  a  horrible  impiety  !  "  Voltaire 
replaced  his  poem  in  the  portfolio,  and  is  reported  to  have 
said,  "  Let  us  go  to  the  theatre.  I  am  sorry  the  author  of  the 
'  Moisade '  did  not  notify  the  public  that  he  had  turned 
devotee."  Something  resembling  this  he  may  have  said. 
They  went  to  the  theatre,  but  not  with  happy  effect  upon 
their  minds,  and  the  estrangement  thus  begun  was  aggravated 
iuto  hostility,  which  time  only  embittered. 

At  Brussels,  where,  as  at  Cambrai,  he  seemed  to  be  im- 
mersed in  pleasure,  he  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  main  ob- 
ject, the  publication  of  his  poem  ;  and  he  sent  to  Thieriot  de- 
signs for  nine  engravings,  one  for  each  canto,  to  be  executed 
at  Paris. 

Early  in  October  he  was  at  the  Hague,  the  scene  of  his 
early  love  and  folly.  At  Brussels  he  had  his  letters  ad- 
dressed to  the  French  ambassador's  ;  at  the  Hague  he  lived 
at  the  hotel  of  Madame  de  Rupelmonde.  His  business  in  the 
Dutch  capital  w^as  to  make  arrangements  for  getting  his 
poem  printed  and  published  there  simultaneously  with  the 
Paris  edition,  for  which  he  confidently  hoped  to  get  the 
**  privilege."     In  case  the  censoi's  should  refuse  the  privilege 


/ 


152  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

for  France,  the  Holland  edition  might  perhaps  serve  for  both 
countries.  He  found  a  willing  publisher,  and  we  see  liira 
busy  enough  prej^aring  to  print,  and  still  softening  the  pas- 
^  sages  in  which  a  Paris  censor  might  find  heresy,  political  or 
theological.  He  was  much  matured  since  his  last  visit,  and 
he  had  time  now  to  observe  and  consider  the  wondrous  spec, 
tacle  that  gi'eeted  him  on  every  side  in  a  city  where  the 
human  mind  was  not  in  suppression.  In  glorious  HoUaud 
valiant  men  had  conquered  a  part  of  their  heritage  of  freedom, 
<^N  ^"f  and  had  reduced  the  priest  to  something  like  safe  dimen- 
X  sions.  In  those  beautiful  days  of  October  he  found  the 
jf  country  a  paradise  of  meadows,  canals,  and  foliage  ;  Amster- 
dam the  storehouse  of  the  world,  with  a  thousand  vessels  in 
port,  and  half  a  million  people,  among  whom  he  discovered 
not  one  idler,  not  one  pauper,  not  one  dandy,  not  one  inso- 
lent. He  met  the  prime  minister  on  foot  in  Amsterdam, 
without  lackeys,  in  the  midst  of  the  people.  In  the  absence 
of  personal  government,  no  one  in  Holland  had  any  court  to 
make,  and  people  did  not  "  put  themselves  in  hedge  "  to  see 
a  prince  go  by.  At  the  Hague,  the  crowd  of  ambassadors 
made  more  magnificence  and  more  society.  "  I  pass  my  life 
there,"  he  writes,  "  between  labor  and  pleasure,  and  thus 
live  Holland  fashion  and  French  fashion.  We  have  here  a 
-/'  detestable  opera,  but,  by  way  of  compensation,  I  see  Calvinist 
ministers,  Arminians,  Socinians,  Rabbis,  Anabaptists,  who 
discourse  to  admiration,  and  who,  in  truth,  are  all  in  the 
right." 

He  passed  the  time  very  agreeably  in  Holland,  floating  on 
the  canal  between  Amsterdam  and  the  Hague,  riding  daily 
on  horseback,  playing  at  tennis,  drinking  tokay,  composing 
circulars  and  proposals,  dining  out,  and  declaiming  portions 
of  his  poem  to  admiring  circles.  As  the  fine  season  drew  to 
an  end,  he  was  obliged  to  turn  his  thoughts  toward  Paris, 
where  Thieriot  was  getting  subscriptions  to  "  La  Henriade," 
and  making  interest  in  its  behalf  in  all  possible  ways.  No 
grande  dame  or  ambassador  happening  to  be  going  to  Paris, 
with  a  seat  to  spare  in  a  vehicle,  he  was  to  perform  the 
journey,  as  he  remarked,  on  his  own  ill-covered  bones  (^mes 
maigres  f esses) ;  that  is,  on  horseback,  taking  his  own  sad- 
dle, and   getting  a  fresh  horse  at  each  post-house.     "  Pray 


JOUENEY  TO  HOLLAND.  153 

to  God,"  he  -writes  to  his  comrade,  "  that  I  may  have  good 
horses  on  the  journey."  He  asks  him,  also,  to  buy  an  excel- 
lent horse  for  him  at  Paris  for  two  hundred  or  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  francs.  "  You  have  only  to  charge  with  this 
commission,"  he  adds,  "  the  same  people  who  sold  my  horses." 
The  cost  of  this  mode  of  traveling  was  moderate,  but  the 
thrifty  poet  probably  got  home  for  nothing,  even  if  he  did 
not  profit  a  little  by  the  journey.  He  writes  to  Thieriot  to 
send  him  the  exact  price  paid  in  France  for  an  escalin,  a 
florin,  a  pantagon,  a  ducat,  and  a  Spanish-  pistole,  coins  cur- 
rent in  Holland,  and  perhaps  a  little  cheaper  there  than 
in  France.  The  exchange  upon  a  bagful  of  pistoles  and 
ducats  might  well  pay  for  the  cost  of  traveling  with  his 
own  saddle  on  hired  horses.^  On  the  last  day  of  October, 
1722,  he  was  as  far  on  his  return  as  Cambrai,  where  he  dis- 
tributed circulars  announcing  his  poem  as  about  to  apjDear, 
and  inviting  subscriptions. 

Never  was  an  enterprise  more  vigorously  "  pushed  "  than 
this  one  of  publishing  an  epic  poem  upon  Henry  of  Navarre. 
While  Thieriot  at  Paris  was  receiving  subscriptions,  and 
endeavoring  to  remove  the  scruples  of  the  censor,  the  author 
of  the  work  was  riding  from  post  to  post,  from  chateau  to 
chateau,  all  the  way  from  Holland,  down  through  Brabant, 
skirting  Germany,  and  so  working  his  way  by  the  end  of 
the  year  to  the  city  of  Orleans,  a  hundred  miles  south  of 
Paris,  exciting  everywhere  an  interest  in  the  forthcoming 
work.  Near  Orleans  was  the  abode  of  Lord  Bolingbroke, 
La  Source,  a  bewitching  estate,  bought  with  money  gained 
by  speculation  in  the  schemes  of  John  Law,  and  brought  to 
high  perfection  by  English  taste  and  liberality.  The  exiled 
statesman  was  living  there  with  his  French  wife,  the  Marquise 
de  Villette, —  himself  a  Frenchman  in  his  literary  tastes,  as 
well  as  in  his  easy  morals.  Voltaire  was  his  guest  at  La 
Source  in  the  early  days  of  the  year  1723,  and  the  poet  ^^ 
wrote  a  letter  there  to  Thieriot,  which  was  perhaps  meant  to 
be  handed  about  in  Paris.  At  least,  we  know  it  ivas  handed 
about,  and  with  effect.  He  assured  Thieriot  that,  in  the 
illustrious  Englishman  he  found  all  the  learning  of  his  own 
country  and  all   the   politeness   of   theirs,   a   master   of  the 

1  Voltaire  a  Ferney,  page  304. 


154  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

French  language,  and  a  discriminating  appreciator  of  the  excel- 
lent literature  of  all  lands. 

"  After  such  a  portraiture  of  Lord  Bohugbroke,  it  is  hardly  becom- 
ing in  me  to  say  that  madame  and  himself  have  been  infinitely  satis- 
fied with  toy  poem.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  their  approbation,  they 
place  it  above  all  the  poetical  works  which  have  appeared  in  France, 
but  I  know  how  much  I  ought  to  abate  of  such  extravagant  eu- 
logium.  I  am  going  to  pass  three  months  in  meriting  a  part  of 
it.  It  seems  to  me  that,  by  dint_of  correcting,  the  work  is  taking 
at  length  a  suitable  form." 

"  The  diarizing  Mathieu  Marais,  advocate  to  the  parliament 
of  Paris,  no  friend  to  notaries'  sons  who  visited  lordly  cha- 
teaux, read  this  letter,  and  was  almost  persuaded  by  it  to 
think  better  of  "the  little  Arouet  "  for  a  moment. 

"  He  has  been  charmed  [wrote  the  advocate  in  his  journal] 
with  the  mind  of  that  Englishman,  and  has  written  to  Paris  a 
marvelous  letter  about  him.  So  highly  did  miloi'd  praise  his  poem, 
which  he  read  to  him,  that  they  are  printing  it  in  Plolland  by  sub- 
scription, with  beautiful  illustrations.  If  it  is  as  fine  as  that  of 
Racine  £son  of  the  great  dramatist,  and  author  of  "  La  Grace," 
a  religious  poem  in  four  cantos,  published  in  1720],  we  shall  have 
two  great  poets  who  are  petty  men  :  for  this  Racine,  whom  I  have 
seen  two  or  three  times,  has  but  a  frivolous  mind,  and  is  without 
tact  in  conversation ;  and  the  other  is  a  fool,  who  despises  the  Sopho- 
cles and  the  Corneilles,  who  has  thought  to  be  a  man  of  the  court, 
who  has  got  himself  caned,  and  who  will  never  know  anything  be- 
cause he  thinks  he  knows  everything."  -^ 

An  amusing  specimen  of  contemporary  judgment.  The 
Duke  of  St.  Simon  alludes  to  Voltaire  in  the  same  lofty  man- 
ner, as  a  person  who  had  gained  "  a  kind  of  standing  in  the 
world  "  through  his  follies  and  the  general  decline  of  morals 
and  manners. 

We  must  own  that  these  puffs  preliminary  and  the  general 
system  of  "  pushing  "  carried  on  for  some  years  by  Voltaire 
and  Thieriot  do  not  present  a  poet  in  a  romantic  light.  We 
are  accustomed,  in  these  happier  days,  to  think  of  our  poets  as 
living  in  pleasant  suburban  places,  in  houses  of  their  own, 
picturesque  or  venerable,  maturing  their  works  in  peaceful  se- 
clusion, and  having  them  spread  abroad  over  the  earth  without 
1  2  Journal  of  Mathieu  Marais,  page  377, 


JOURNEY  TO   HOLLAND.  155 

any  interference  on  the  part  of  the  author.  It  was  far  other- 
wise in  the  France  of  1722,  when  Voltaire  submitted  his  poem 
to  the  censure.  The  system  of  publishing,  as  we  find  it  now, 
did  not  exist ;  nor  did  the  laws  exist  by  which  an  author  holds 
proj)erty  in  the  products  of  his  own  mind.  The  measures 
taken  by  Voltaire  to  create  an  interest  in  his  work  before  its 
publication  were  all  necessary  in  a  country  governed  by  caprice. 
Such  expedients  were  as  necessary  in  1722  as  they  were  in 
1789,  when  Beaumarchais,  by  similar  arts  and  equal  persist- 
ence, forced  his  "  Figaro "  upon  the  Paris  stage  against  the 
king  himself. 

The  literary  sensation  of  this  very  year,  1722,  well  illus- 
trates the  precarious  tenure  by  which  literary  men  then  held 
their  subsistence.  A  stroke  of  a  minister's  pen  suspended  the 
labors  of  Le  Sage,  the  author  of  "  Gil  Bias,"  as  well  as  of  the 
whole  coterie  of  authors  and  composers  who  sustained  the 
comic  opera.  The  comic  opera  had  become  too  popular.  It  was 
drawing  away  the  fashionable  world  of  Paris  from  the  Theatre 
Fran^ais,  in  which  the  works  of  the  classic  dramatists  were 
performed,  and  the  actors  had  interest  eno.ugh  to  procure  an 
order  designed  to  suppress  the  comic  opera,  and  to  reduce  the 
minor  theatres  to  their  former  repertoire  of  songs,  music,  reci- 
tations, Punch,  and  the  ballet.  Instead  of  expressing  this  in- 
tention in  plain  language,  the  order  set  forth  that  on  the 
minor  stage  thei'e  should  be  only  one  speaking  character  at  a 
time.  Le  Sage  and  his  colleagues,  refusing  to  work  under  this 
hard  condition,  resorted  in  despair  to  a  certain  Alexis  Piron,  an 
untried  hanger-on  of  the  theatre,  the  only  man  in  Europe,  per- 
haps, capable  of  producing  an  effective  three-act  comedy,  and 
keep  within  the  iron  limits  of  the  new  decree.  The  order  of 
1722  brought  the  manager  of  the  comic  opera  a  suppliant  to  his 
garret,  and  in  forty-eight  hours  Alexis  produced  a  play  which 
filled  the  void.  Nothing  gave  the  Parisians  of  that  generation 
keener  delight  than  to  see  an  arbitrary  decree  like  this  at  once 
obeyed  and  evaded.  But,  in  truth,  the  comedy  which  the 
merry  Alexis  produced  on  this  occasion  would  have  amused 
even  a  hostile  audience,  so  full  was  it  of  those  broad,  strong 
comic  effects  which  audiences  cannot  resist.  He  had  but  one 
speaker  on  the  stage  at  a  time,  but  he  enabled  an  anxious 
manager  to  exhibit  every  night,  to  the  utmost  advantage,  his 


156  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

whole  company  of  actors,  singers,  dancers,  and  gymnasts. 
"  Harlequin-Deucalion  "  was  the  name  of  the  play.  It  opens 
while  the  storm  is  still  raging  which  has  drowned  all  the  world 
except  Deucalion,  who  has  saved  himself  by  getting  astride  of 
a  barrel.  In  the  midst  of  the  tempest,  this  sole  survivor  of 
the  human  family  comes  bounding  upon  the  stage,  barrel  and 
all,  with  a  huge  knapsack  on  his  back.  The  first  scene  con- 
sists of  a  long  soliloquy,  in  which  he  makes  several  humorous 
local  allusions,  and  spouts  passages  parodied  from  plays  that 
were  running  at  the  time,  and  were  perfectly  familiar  to  the 
audience.  Every  sentence  in  this  soliloquy  was  a  distinct  hit, 
and  would  make  a  French  audience  laugh.  As  he  sits  down 
to  dinner,  talking  to  himself,  he  notices  that  his  language  has 
a  sort  of  mad  propensity  to  rhyme,  which  puzzles  him,  and 
causes  him  to  look  around  to  see  where  he  is.  He  discovers 
that  he  and  his  barrel  have  landed  upon  Mount  Parnassus, 
which  accounts  for  his  poetizing.  The  reader,  who  knows 
what  a  curious  creature  an  audience  is,  can  easily  imagine 
what  boisterous  fun  this  rhyming  trick  would  create,  partic- 
ularly when  it  manifested  itself  in  burlesque  parodies  of  plays 
as  well  known  to  Frenchmen  then  as  Hamlet  is  to  us  now. 

And  so  the  play  goes  on,  until  every  folly  of  the  day  is  hit, 
and  every  member  of  the  company  appears.  The  failure  of 
Voltaire's  play  "  Artemire  "  does  not  escape.  In  the  second 
act,  Deucalion  appears  mounted  upon  Pegasus,  He  spurs  and 
lashes  the  noble  animal  until  he  has  roused  himself  to  a  high 
pitch  of  exaltation,  when  he  declaims  those  opening  verses  of 
Voltaire's  play  that  promised  such  great  things  :  — 

"  Oui,  tous  ces  conquerants  rassembles  sar  ce  bord, 
Soldats  sous  Alexandre,  et  rois  apres  sa  mort." 

Having  delivered  these  famous  lines  in  a  tragedian's  most 
swelling  manner,  he  falls  headlong  from  Pegasus  upon  his 
back,  and  gets  up  dolefully  rubbing  himself,  and  saying,  as  if 
he  had  lost  the  word,  "  Apres  sa  mort,  apres  sa  mort ;  I  am 
gone  all  lame.  By  Jove,  it  is  a  pity;  I  was  getting  on  so 
well." 

The  play  was  a  prodigious  success,  and  the  government  tac- 
itly permitted  so  audacious  and  brilliant  a  defiance  of  its  de- 
cree. Voltaire  was  present  at  one  of  the  performances  of  the 
piece,  and  he  may  have  learned  from  it  how  safe  it  was  to  evade 


JOURNEY   TO   HOLLAND.  157 

the  strong  measures  of  a  government  that  was  itself  not  strong. 
According  to  the  jolly  Alexis,  the  author  of  "  Artemire  " 
was  not  displeased  at  the  allusions  to  himself  in  "  Deucalion," 
saying  to  the  author  at  the  close,  "I  felicitate  myself,  sir, 
I  upon  having  had  a  part  in  your  success  ; "  whereupon  Piron 
protested  he  did  not  know  whose  the  lines  were  that  he  had 
caused  to  be  spouted  from  the  back  of  Pegasus. 

To  this  day,  French  people  love  to  relate  encounters  of  wit 
between  Voltaire  and  Piron.  Piron  himself  records  many  of 
them,  in  which  the  author  of  "  Harlequin-Deucalion  "  inva- 
riably comes  off  victorious.  "  Eo  rus,"  wrote  Voltaire,  one 
day,  to  notify  Piron  that  he  was  "going  into  the  country." 
Piron,  to  surpass  this  epistle  in  brevity,  replied  by  one  letter, 
"  /,"  which  is  Latin  for  "  Go."  But  then  this  anecdote  is 
related  of  other  men.  For  fifty  years,  Piron  and  Voltaire, 
known  generators  of  anecdotes,  were  accustomed  to  have  spu- 
rious offspring  laid  at  their  doors. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"LA  HENRIADE"  PUBLISHED. 

It  is  May,  1723.  Voltaire  and  his  friend  Thieriot  are  estab- 
lished at  Paris,  in  the  town-house  of  the  Marquis  de  Bernieres, 
a  distinguished  magistrate  of  Rouen  (jjvesident  d  mortier), 
whose  wife  had  long  been  one  of  Voltaire's  most  familiar  cor- 
respondents. M.  de  Bernieres  was  good  enough  to  let  part  of 
his  house  to  the  author  of  "  CEdipe  "  at  six  hundred  francs  per 
annum,  and  to  permit  him  to  pay  a  further  sum  of  about 
twelve  hundred  francs  per  annum  for  other  expenses  of  Thie- 
riot and  himself  when  they  were  in  Paris,  —  an  arrangement 
creditable  to  the  good  sense  of  both  parties.  The  compact 
was  drawn  in  proper  form  by  a  notarj'^,  —  Armand  Arouet, 
mon  frere,  —  who  also  gave  legal  receipts  for  the  rent,  and 
seems  always  at  this  period  to  have  had  money  of  Francois's 
in  his  hands.  During:  Voltaire's  long  absences  from  Paris,  he 
occasionally  sends  Thieriot  to  mon  frere  for  money,  and  often 
urges  him  not  to  forget  to  "  dine  a  little  "  now  and  then  with 
his  sister. 

The  house  of  M.  de  Bernieres  was  situated  on  that  part  of 
the  bank  of  the  Seine  which  was  then  called  Quai  des  Thda- 
tins,  now  Quai  Voltaire,  and  it  was  nearly  opposite  the  gar- 
dens of  the  Tuileries.  It  ouglit  to  have  been  an  agreeable 
site  ;  but  Voltaire  complains  of  "  this  noisy  quai,'''  and  ex- 
plains the  cause  of  the  noise.  Paris  in  1723  was  very  far  from 
being  either  the  elegant  or  the  commodious  city  which  it  is 
now.  Servants  and  others  came  down  in  great  numbers  to  the 
river  to  draw  water,  and  one  of  the  places  convenient  for  the 
purpose  was  this  Quai  des  Theatins,  under  the  windows  of  a 
laborious  and  susceptible  author,  correcting  an  ej^ic  and  com- 
posing a  new  play.  He  writes  to  Madame  de  Bernieres,  who 
was  about  to  return  from  Rouen  to  Paris,  telling  her  that  her 
rooms  were  making  ready,  and  urging  her  to  come  sooner  than 
she  had  intended. 


"LA   HENRIADE"  PUBLISHED.  159 

"At  least  [he  adds],  grant  me  another  favor,  which  I  solicit 
with  the  utmost  urgency.  I  find  myself,  I  know  not  how,  burdened 
with  three  servants,  whom  I  cannot  afford  to  keep,  and  have  not  the 
resolution  to  discharge.  One  of  these  three  messieurs  is  poor  La  Brie, 
whom  you  saw  long  ago  in  my  service.  He  is  too  old  to  be  a  lackey, 
incapable  of  being,  a  valet,  and  just  the  man  for  a  door-keeper.  You 
have  a  Swiss  who  is  not  in  your  service  to  please  you,  but  to  sell  at  your 
door  bad  wine  to  all  the  water-carriers,  who  come  here  every  day  and 
make  your  house  a  nasty  wine-shop.  If  the  desire  of  having  at  your 
door  an  animal  with  a  shoulder-knot,  whom  you  pay  dearly  every  year 
to  serve  you  ill  three  months  and  sell  bad  wine  twelve ;  if,  I  say,  the 
desire  of  having  your  door  decorated  with  such  an  ornament  is  not 
very  near  your  heart,  I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  favor  to  give  the  place  to 
my  poor  La  Brie.  You  will  oblige  me  sensibly.  I  have  almost  as 
strong  a  wish  to  see  him  at  your  door  as  to  see  you  arrive  at  your 
house.  The  place  will  be  the  making  of  him ;  he  will  cost  you  much 
less  than  a  Swiss,  and  will  serve  you  much  better.  If,  besides  that, 
the  pleasure  of  obliging  me  counts  for  something  in  the  arrangements 
of  your  house,  I  flatter  myself  that  you  will  not  refuse  me  this  favor, 
which  I  ask  with  importunity.  I  await  your  answer  to  reform  my 
little  establishment." 

A-  moving  epistle,  but  it  did  not  suffice.  Next  year  there 
was  a  robbery  in  the  house,  and  the  poet  wrote  to  his  com- 
rade, "  This  comes  of  having  an  imbecile  and  interested  Swiss 
at  your  door,  keeping  a  wine-shop,  instead  of  an  attached  por- 
tiere Poor  La  Brie  remained  upon  his  hands,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  reform  his  household  otherwise.  Behold  him,  then, 
settled  in  his  new  quarters  with  his  factotum  Thieriot.  "  La 
Henriade  "  was  substantially  finished,  including  notes,  remarks, 
pictures,  an  outline  of  the  history  of  Henry  IV.,  and  a  dedica- 
tion to  the  king,  then  a  rude,  robust  boy  of  thirteen,  delight- 
ing in  the  slaughter  of  small  birds.  Subscription  papers  had 
been  accessible  to  the  public  for  some  months,  with  results  far 
from  flattering.  "  You  have  undertaken  a  work,"  said  M.  de 
Malezieu  to  the  author,  one  day,  "  which  is  not  suited  to  our 
nation.  The  French  have  not  the  epic  head.  Thougli  you 
should  write  as  well  as  Racine  and  Boileau,  it  will  be  much  if 
they  read  you."  ^  The  comparative  failure  of  the  subscrip- 
tions was  broadly  burlesqued  at  the  theatre  which  had  been 
the  recent  scene  of  Piron's  triumph,  and  the  poet  did  not  rel- 

1  Essai  sur  la  Poesie  flpique  par  Voltaire,  13  CEiivres,  542. 


<: 


160  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

ish  the  jest,  for  he  was  not  in  the  best  humor.  Beauregard 
was  still  in  jail,  and  a  cause  of  expense  to  him ;  he  was  kept 
out  of  his  share  of  his  father's  estate ;  the  subscriptions  were 
not  as  productive  of  cash  as  he  had  hoped  ;  expense  followed 
upon  expense,  with  dim  prospect  of  reimbursement.  Worst  of 
all,  it  now  began  to  be  agonizingly  doubtful  Whether  the  poem 
Avould  be  allowed  to  appear  in  France,  and  he  dared  not  use 

V  the  proceeds  of  the  subscriptions,  for  fear  of  having  to  return 
them.  Once  he  ventured  to  take  two  hundred  francs  from 
that  "  sacred  fund,"  but  made  haste  to  restore  it.     We  cannot 

-A—  wonder,  then,  to  find  him  writing  to  Thieriot  this  j-ear  that 
the  burlesque  at  the  theatre  had  not  sharpened  the  bitterness 
of  his  cup,  and  that  he  willingly /or^awe  those  scoundrels  of 
authors  the  buffooneries  which  were  their  trade. 

How  could  he,  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine,  have  been  so  little 
acquainted  with  the  court  as  to  expect  the  "  privilege  "  of  pub- 
lishing in  France  such  a  work  as  "  La  Henriade"?  He  did 
expect  it  most  confidently.  He  had  softened  or  removed,  as 
he  supposed,  every  passage  that  the  most  limited  priest  or 
T  the  most  arrogant  prelate  could  seize  upon  as  objectionable. 
He  had  read  large  portions  of  it  to  the  regent,  and  had 
changed  certain  passages  with  a  particular  view  to  conciliate 
Cardinal  Dubois.  But,  heavens  !  there  was  a  tone  in  the  very 
dedication  to  the  king  which  must  have  startled  the  censor  of 
a  goveimment  like  this,  which,  at  the  best,  could  only  hand  the 
reins  of  power  from  a  dissolute  Dubois  to  a  virtuous  Fleury, 
both  priests  and  both  cardinals,  —  a  government  destined  for 
the  next  sixty-six  years  to  invest  with  the  attraction  of  for- 
bidden fruit  every  bright  and  free  utterance  of  the  human 
mind. 

"  Sire  :  Every  work  in  which  the  great  deeds  of  Henry  TV.  are 
spoken  of  ought  to  be  offered  to  your  majesty.  It  is  the  blood  of  that 
hero  which  flows  in  your  veins.  You  are  king  only  because  he  was 
a  great  man ;  and  France,  that  wishes  you  as  much  virtue  as  he  pos- 
sessed, and  more  happiness,  flatters  itself  that  the  life  and  the  throne 
which  you  owe  to  him  will  engage  you  to  imitate  him. 

"  Fortunate  in  having  known  adversity,  he  felt  for  the  miseries  of 
men,  and  softened  the  rigors  of  a  rule  from  which  he  had  suffered 
himself.  Other  kinsfs  have  courtiers  ;  he  had  friends.  His  heart  was 
full  of  tenderness  for  his  true  servants. 


"LA   HENRIADE"  PUBLISHED.  161 


"  Tliat  king,  who  truly  loved  his  subjects,  never  regarded  their 
complaints  as  sedition,  nor  the  remonstrances  of  magistrates  as  en- 
croachment upon  the  sovereign  authority.  Shall  I  say  it,  sire  ?  Yes  ; 
truth  commands  me  so  to  do.  It  is  a  thing  very  shameful  to  kings, 
this  astonishment  we  experience  when  they  sincerely  love  the  happi- 
ness of  their  people.  May  you  one  day  accustom  us  to  regard  that 
virtue  as  something  appertaining  to  your  crown  !  It  was  the  true 
love  of  Henry  IV.  for  France  which  made  him  adored  by  his  sub- 
jects." 

There  is  something  in  this  dedication  that  savors  of  the  free 
air  of  Holland  which  the  author  had  Litely  inhaled.  It  was 
the  utterance  of  a  citizen,  not  of  a  courtier,  and  it  did  not  con- 
ciliate. The  poem  itself  related  the  bloodiest  triumph  of  in- 
tolerance Europe  has  known,  —  the  massacres  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew, one  hundred  andiifty  years  before.  The  natural  effect 
of  the  poem  upon  every  intelligent  mind  was  to  excite  a  hor- 
ror of  intolerant  religion,  as  the  one  baleful  and  hideous  thing 
of  modern  history,  attesting  its  hellish  character  in  every  age 
by  fire  and  massacre ;  the  direct  cause  of  the  worst  things  man 
has  ever  done  against  man.  The  poem  exhibited  brave  and 
humane  men  turned  into  monsters  by  intolerant  religion  ;  "in-  ^ 
voking  the  Lord  while  slaughtering  their  brothers,  and,  their  ^v^ 

arms  wet  with  the  blood  of  innocent  children,  daring  to  offer 
to  God  that  execrable  incense."  It  showed  French  rivers 
flowing  red  with  French  blood,  and  bearing  to  the  sea  the 
bodies  of  Frenchmen  slain  by  Frenchmen,  set  on  to  the  fell 
work  by  crafty  priests.  It  showed  Elizabeth,  queen  of  the 
"  proud,  indomitable  English,"  saying  to  Henry  of  Navarre, 
"  A  great  man  ought  not  to  dread  the  futile  thunders  of 
Rome,"  —  a  power  *'  inflexible  to  the  conquered,  complaisant  -/, 
to  conquerors,  ready,  as  interest  dictates,  either  to  absolve  or 
condemn."  It  gave  in  harmonious  and  powerful  verse  a  cata- 
logue of  the  unspeakable  things  done  by  fanatics  in  every 
age :  mothers  offering  to  Moloch  the  smoking  entrails  of  their 
own  children ;  Iphigenia  led  by  her  father  a  sacrifice  to  the 
altar ;  the  early  Christians  hurled  from  the  summit  of  the 
capitol ;  Jews  burned  every  year  (twenty  were  burned  in  1717 
by  Portuguese)  for  "not  abandoning  the  faith  of  their  fore- 
fathers." It  showed  religion  used  by  ambitious  chiefs  as  a 
pretext,  but  accepted  by  ignorant  followers  as  the  most  real 

VOL.    I.  11 


162  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

of  all  possible  causes  of  hostility.  "  To  him  who  avenges  the 
church  all  becomes  legitimate :  murder  is  just ;  it  is  author- 
ized ;  na}',  it  is  commanded  b}'^  Heaven !  "  The  poem  dwells 
upon  the  doctors  of  divinity  whose  fierce  and  bloody  lessons 
drive  weak  men  mad,  and  make  them  the  assassins  of  good 
kings  ;  and  upon  "  those  priests  whose  fatal  eloquence  kindled 
the  fires  that  had  consumed  France." 

Apart  from  such  passages  as  these,  the  spirit  of  the  poem 
was  secular,  and  its  morale  was  that  of  the  deism  then  in 
vogue,  a  system  that  had  no  room  in  it  for  priests.  The  very 
passages  inserted  to  conciliate  the  censorship  had  offense  in 
them  ;  for  if  the  author  spoke  of  the  Protestant  doctrines  as 
"  erroi',"  he  must  needs  add  that  "  error,  too,  had  its  heroes." 
Enough  ;  after  some  weeks  of  suspense  the  poet  learned  that 
the  "  privilege "  would  not  be  granted;  and,  consequently,  all 
the  arrangements  hitherto  made,  in  Holland  and  in  France, 
were  of  no  effect.  He  could  not  supply  copies  to  his  sub- 
scribers, nor  "  copy  "  to  his  Dutch  printer  ;  for  it  seems  that 
his  bargain  with  the  publisher  at  the  Hague  was  conditional 
upon  his  obtaining  the  privilege  in  France. 

A  French  commentator  upon  these  events  judiciously  re- 
marks that  Voltaire  did  not  write  a  poem  in  nine  or  ten  cantos 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  it  in  a  portfolio.  He  resolved  to 
print  his  poem  and  supply  copies  in  Paris  without  a  "  privi- 
lege." As  Alexis  Piron  had  evaded  with  impunity  a  positive 
prohibition,  so  he,  with  the  help  of  Thieriot,  now  set  about 
eluding  a  negative  one.  Sixty  eight  miles  from  Paris,  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Seine,  is  the  city  of  Rouen,  the  chief  abode 
of  his  landlord,  M.  de  Bernieres,  where  also  lived  M.  de  Cide- 
ville,  another  magistrate,  a  fellow- student  at  the  College  Louis- 
le-Grand,  and  ever  since  a  faithful  friend.  There  was  much 
going  to  and  fro  this  year  between  the  Quai  des  Theatins  at 
Paris  and  a  certain  printing-house  at  Rouen.  Voltaire  was  at 
Rouen  for  a  while  ;  then  Thieriot ;  then  Voltaire  again  ;  then 
both.  Such  was  the  slowness  of  the  old  printers  that  it  re- 
quired five  months  to  put  the  two  hundred  and  thirty  pages 
of  the  first  edition  in  type  ;  and,  meanwhile,  Thieriot  in  Paris 
was  settinsi;  two  thousand  bindings  readv  against  the  arrival 
of  the  printed  sheets.  All  was  done  with  the  utmost  secrecy. 
The  poem  was  spoken  of  in  Voltaire's  letters  as  mon  Jils,  mon 


"LA   HENEIADE"  PUBLISHED.  163 

hdtard,  mon  petit  bdtard,  and  the  bindings  as  "my  two  thou- 
sand jackets."  Doubtless,  Madame  de  Bernicres,  as  well  as 
M.  de  Cideville,  assisted  in  the  scheme  ;  for  it  was  at  her 
house  that  Voltaire  and  Thieriot  lived  while  they  remained 
near  Rouen.  The  dates  are  all  in  confusion  here  ;  but,  hap- 
pily, it  is  of  no  great  consequence.  We  can  discover,  by  long 
groping  in  the  dim  cross-lights,  that,  during  a  great  part  of 
1723,  this  business  of  getting  two  thousand  copies  of  "  La 
Henriade  "  manufactured  was  a  grand  object  with  our  impetu- 
ous and  irresistible  poet. 

It  was  a  business  that  left  him  many  vacant  hours,  part  of 
which  he  employed  in  writing  a  new  tragedy,  "  JMariamne." 
The  scene  of  this  drama  was  laid  in  Palestine.  Herod,  the 
king,  was  the  chief  personage ;  and  his  young  wife,  Mariamne, 
was  the  innocent,  suspected  heroine.  He  toiled  at  this  play 
with  even  more  than  his  usual  assiduity,  in  the  hope  of  oblit- 
erating by  it  the  memory  of  his  dramatic  failure  in  Arte- 
mire,  some  passages  and  incidents  of  which  he  employed  in 
the  new  tragedy.  In  November  he  was  to  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  hearing  it  read  by  Madame  Lecouvreur,  the  first  act- 
ress of  her  generation,  before  a  company  of  great  note  and 
splendor  at  the  Chateau  de  Maisons,  in  the  forest  of  St.  Ger- 
main, nine  miles  from  Paris. 

At  this  chateau  he  had  been  a  frequent  guest  for  consid- 
erable periods.  The  rooms  in  which  he  lived  and  wrote  used 
to  be  shown  to  visitors  long  after  his  death.  The  remains 
of  the  chateau,  one  of  the  first  built  by  Mansard,  and  occu- 
pied by  a  number  of  famous  persons,  show  how  capable  it 
must  have  been  of  entertaining  fine  company  in  the  early 
years  of  Louis  XV.  M.  de  Maisons,  the  young  lord  of  the 
mansion,  was  accustomed  to  bring  together  those  who  prac- 
ticed and  those  who  enjoyed  the  arts;  or,  as  the  chronicles 
of  the  period  have  it,  "  all  the  arts,  all  the  talents,  and  all 
the  agreeablenesses."  Voltaire  was  doubly  welcome,  as  poet 
and  as  friend  of  Madame  de  Villars,  who  was  a  near  relation 
of  Madame  de  Maisons. 

A  grand  three-days  fete  was  announced  for  the  early  days 
of  November,  1723,  at  the  Chateau  de  Maisons,  to  which 
sixty  lords  and  ladies  were  invited.  The'  Abbe  de  Fleury, 
preceptor  and  favorite  of  the  king,  who  was  soon  to  be  car- 


164  LIFE  OF   VOLTAIRE. 

dinal  and  minister,  was  expected.  Plays  were  to  be  per- 
formed and  concerts  given  ;  all  the  usual  round  of  diversions 
and  divertisements  were  to  be  presented  ;  and,  as  a  special 
entertainment,  there  was  to  be  a  formal  reading  of  the  new 
tragedy  by  Madame  Lecouvreur,  in  the  presence  of  the  au- 
thor. The  4th  of  the  month  had  arrived.  Madame  Lecou- 
vreur, the  first  lady  of  her  profession,  it  is  said,  who  ever 
associated  on  apparently  equal  terms  with  her  sister  artists, 
the  grand  ladies  of  the  old  regime^  had  reached  the  chateau. 
Voltaire  arrived,  and  preparations  for  the  festival  were  going 
forward.  On  that  very  day,  November  4th,  the  lord  of  the 
castle  and  himself  were  indisposed.  According  to  the  usage, 
of  the  time,  they  had  themselves  bled  ;  which  relieved  the  host, 
but  not  the  guest. 

After  two  days  of  fever,  a  slight  eruption  revealed,  late  at 
night,  the  dread  malady  of  that  century,  the  small-pox  !  The 
consternation  was  such  that  guests,  roused  from  sleep,  set  off 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  for  their  homes.  Couriers  were 
dispatched  to  the  Abbe  de  Fleury  and  other  invited  persons, 
warning  them  not  to  come.  Madame  Lecouvreur,  with 
the  proverbial  kindness  of  her  profession,  sent  an  express  to 
Rouen  to  call  Thieriot  from  the  printing  of  the  poem  to 
the  bedside  of  the  poet.  M.  de  Maisons  summoned  Gervasi, 
the  physician  of  Paris  most  noted  for  his  successful  treat- 
ment of  this  disease.  We  possess,  from  the  pen  of  Voltaire, 
a  curiously  minute  account  of  the  treatment  to  which  he  was 
subjected  on  this  occasion,  as  well  as  of  the  system  in  vogue, 
written  in  January,  1724,  at  the  request  of  the  aged  Baron 
de  Breteuil,  father  of  that  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  with  whom 
he  was  to  be  so  intimately  and  so  long  connected.  This 
epistle,  one  of  the  longest  he  ever  wrote,  is  a  valuable  chap- 
ter for  the  historian  of  the  healing  art,  though  much  too  exten- 
sive for  insertion  here. 

"The  malady  [wrote  Voltaire]  appeared  after  two  days  of  fever, 
and  revealed  itself  by  a  slight  eruption.  I  had  myself  bled  a  second 
time,  on  my  own  responsibility,  despite  the  popular  prejudice.  M. 
de  Maisons  had  the  goodness  to  send  me  the  next  day  M.  de  Ger- 
vasi, physician  to  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan,  who  visited  me  with  re- 
luctance. He  feared  to  be  engaged  in  treating  uselessly,  in  a  deli- 
cate and  feeble  constitution,  the  small-pox  already  at  the  second  day 


"LA  HENRIADE"   TUBLISHED.  165 

of  the  eruption,  and  the  development  of  which  had  been  hindered  only 
by  two  insutlicient  bleedings,  without  any  medicine. 

"  He  came,  nevertheless,  and  found  me  with  a  malignant  fever. 
From  the  first,  he  had  a  bad  opinion  of  my  case  ;  the  servants  who 
attended  me  perceived  it,  and  did  not  permit  me  to  remain  in  igno- 
rance of  it.  They  announced  to  me,  at  the  same  time,  that  the 
priest  of  the  parish,  who  took  an  interest  in  my  health,  and  who 
was  not  afraid  of  the  small- pox,  had  inquired  if  he  could  see  me 
without  giving  me  inconvenience.  I  admitted  him  at  once;  I  con- 
fessed ;  and  I.  made  my  will,  which,  as  you  may  well  believe,  was 
not  very  long.  After  that,  I  awaited  death  with  sutHcient  tranquil- 
lity ;  regretting,  however,  to  go  without  having  put  the  last  hand 
to  my  poem  and  to  '  INIariamne,'  and  sorry  to  leave  my  friends  so 
soon.  Nevertheless,  M.  de  Gervasi  did  not  abandon  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  studied  with  attention  all  the  movements  of  nature  ;  he 
gave  me  nothing  to  take  without  telling  me  the  reason  of  it ;  he 
let  me  partly  see  the  danger,  and  showed  me  clearly  the  remedy.^ 
His  reasonings  carried  conviction  and  confidence  to  my  mind,  —  a 
method  very  necessary  with  a  sick  person,  because  the  hope  of  cure 
is  itself  half  a  cure.  Eight  times  he  was  obliged  to  make  me  take 
an  emetic ;  and,  instead  of  the  cordials  usually  given  in  this  disease, 
he  made  me  drink  two  hundred  pints  of  lemonade.  This  treatment, 
which  will  seem  to  you  extraordinary,  was  the  only  one  that  could 
have  saved  my  life,  every  other  road  conducting  me  to  certain  death ; 
and  I  am  persuaded  that  most  of  those  who  have  died  of  this  dread- 
ful malady  would  be  still  alive  if  they  had  been  treated  as  I  was. 

"Popular  prejudice  abhors,  in  cases  .of  small-pox,  bleeding  and 
medicine.  People  wish  nothing  but  cordials  given  ;  wine  is  admin- 
istered to  the  sick  man,  and  even  broth.  Error  triumphs,  fi'om  the 
fact  that  many  persons  recover  under  this  regimen.  People  do  not 
consider  that  the  only  cases  of  small-pox  successfully  treated  in  this 
manner  are  those  which  no  fatal  accident  accompanies,  and  which  are 
in  no  degree  dangerous." 

He  continues  to  defend  the  bridge  which  had  carried  him 
over,  and  to  pour  forth  expressions  of  gratitude  to  ]\I.  and 
Madame  de  iNlaisons,  as  well  as  to  his  devoted  Thierot,  who 
flew  to  him,  post  haste,  as  soon  as  he  received  INIadame  Le- 
couvreur's  message,  and  remained  with  him  till  he  recovered. 
On  the  eleventh  day  from  his  seizure  he  was  out  of  danger;  on 
the  twelfth  he  wrote  verses  ;  on  the  twenty-sixth  he  was  well 
enough  to  be  removed  to  Paris,  and  thus  relieve  his  generous 
friends  from  a  presence  which  had  cost  them  and  their  circle 


166 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


/r^ 


n 


^J 


f.' 


j>V 


so  much  inconvenience.  His  carnage  had  scarcely  gone  two 
hundred  paces  from  the  chateau  when  the  floor  of  the  room 
which  he  had  occupied  burst  into  flames  from  a  charred  beam 
under  the  fire-place;  and  before  the  fire  was  subdued  damage 
was  done  to  the  extent  of  one  hundred  thousand  francs.  The 
chateau  itself,  one  of  the  finest  in  Europe,  was  only  saved  by 
the  help  of  engines  brought  from  Paris. 

The  invalid  did  not  hear  of  this  calamity  until  the  next 
morning.  "  I  had  the  same  grief,"  he  wrote  to  the  Baron, 
"  as  if  I  had  been  the  guilty  cause  of  it :  the  fever  seized  me 
again,  and  I  assure  you  that  at  that  moment  I  vras'  not  grate- 
ful to  M.  Gervasi  for  having  saved  my  life.''  M.  and  Madame 
de  Maisons,  anticijoating  his  feelings,  wrote  consoling  letters 
to  him,  as  if  they  had  burned  a  chateau  of  his  instead  of  his 
having  occasioned  damage  to  one  of  theirs. 

Many  months  passed  before  he  recovered  his  health ;  and, 
indeed,  from  this  time  to  the  end  of  his  life,  he  was  more  lia- 
ble than  before  to  those  indispositions  and  that  feeling  of 
bodily  insufficiency  to  which  literary  men  are  liable. 

A  great  joy  was  in  store  for  him  at  the  beginning  of  the 
new  year,  1724,  one  of  the  keenest  known  to  mortals.  After 
a  year  of  intrigue  and  suspense,  after  nine  years  of  fitful,  im- 
passioned toil,  copies  of  his  poem  were  in  existence  !  It  only 
remained  to  get  them  from  Rouen  to  Paris,  —  a  difficult  task 
under  paternal  government.  Madame  de  Bernieres,  who  had 
wagons  and  barges  frequently  going  between  the  two  cities, 
gave  the  conspirators  her  assistance  ;  and  so,  at  last,  as  if  "  by 
miracle,"  the  great  packages  were  got  past  the  barriers,  and 
safely  housed  somewhere  in  Paris.  The  public  curiosity,  the 
author's  tact,  Thieriot's  zeal,  and  the  cooperation  of  the  elect 
did  the  rest ;  and  early  in  the  year  1724  copies  began  to  cir- 
culate. The  poem  becoming  a  topic  of  conversation,  it  was  a 
distinction  to  have  seen  a  copy  ;  then  a  merit  to  have  read 
the  work ;  until,  at  length,  nobody's  secret  drawer  was  com- 
plete without  it.  Its  success  with  the  "  reading  public  "  of 
the  day  was  immediate,  immense,  and  universal ;  that  is,  it 
reached  at  once  and  strongly  moved  the  few  hundred  persons, 
here  and  there  in  Europe,  who  shared  the  intellectual  life  of 
their  generation.  The  very  defects  and  faults  of  the  work, 
which  exclude  it  from  the  rank  of  the  three  or  four  immortal 


"LA  HENEIADE"  PUBLISHED.  167 

epics,  enhanced  its  effect  upon  French  readers  of   that  day. 
Hear  the  verdict  of  Mathieu  Marais,  old  lawyer,  a  man  prej-     ^ 
udiced   against  this  high-aspiring  son  of   a  notary.       Marais       '    ■  . 
did  but  give  utterance  to  the  general  feeling  when  he  wrote   /C      '  r 
in  his  diary  for  February,  1724,  the  well  known  entry  :  —  i^  „   ^; 

"  The  poem  of  '  The  League,'  [so  it  was  called  in  the  first  edition] 
by  Arouet,  of  which  so  much  has  been  said,  is  selling  secretly.  I 
have  read  it.  It  is  a  wonderful  work,  a  masterpiece  of  the  mind,  as 
beautiful  as  Virgil ;  and  behold  our  language  in  possession  of  an  epic 
poem,  as  of  other  poetical  works  !  I  know  not  how  to  speak  of  it. 
There  is  everything  in  the  poem.  I  cannot  think  where  Arouet,  so 
young,  could  have  learned  so  much.  It  is  like  inspiration.  What  an 
abyss  is  the  human  mind !  The  surprising  thing  is  that  every  part  of 
the  poem  is  temperate,  well  ordered,  urbane  ;  we  find  in  it  no  crude 
vivacity,  no  merely  brilliant  passages,  but  everywhere  elegance,  cor- 
rectness, happy  turns,  an  eloquence  simple  and  grand,  —  qualities  be- 
longing to  mature  genius,  and  nowise  characteristic  of  the  young  man. 
Fly,  La  Motte,  Fontenelle,  and  all  of  you,  poets  of  the  new  style  ! 
From  this  marvelous  poem,  at  once  the  glory  and  the  shame  of  our 
nation,  learn  to  think  and  to  write  !  "  ^ 

From  such  contemporary  notices  as  these  it  is  evident  that 
the  similarity  in  form  of  "La  Henriade"  to  the  "jEneid," 
which  sometimes  makes  the  modern  reader  smile  and  the  ir- 
reverent school-boy  laugh,  was  part  of  its  charm  and  an  ele- 
ment of  its  power  in  1724.  These  two  poems  frequently  fill 
a  corner  of  the  same  school-desk,  and  usually  we  come  to  the 
study  of  the  French  epic  when  we  are  somewhat  familiar 
with  the  Latin  one.  The  resemblances,  merely  external,  but 
needlessly  obvious,  and  very  numerous,  strike  the  unformed 
mind  most  forcibly,  and  are  fatal  to  the  effect  of  "  La  Henri- 
ade," as  a  whole,  upon  mature  readers.  Voltaire's  second 
book,  for  example,  is  as  different  as  possible  in  spirit  from  ^ 
Virgil's  second  book,  but  in  form  it  resembles  it.  In  Virgil, 
^neas  recounts  to  Queen  Dido  the  fall  of  Troy;  in  Voltaire, 
Henry  of  Navarre  relates  to  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England  the 
civil  wars  of  France.  Voltaire  himself  assures  us  that  he 
purposely  modeled  his  sixth  canto  upon  Virgil's  sixth.  The 
large  ingredient  of  the  supernatural  in  the  "  JEneid  "  we  ac- 
cept as  readily  as  we  do  the  ghost  in  "  Hamlet ;  "  but  it  re- 

1  3  Memoirs  de  M.  Marais,  89.  ^ ,  \.^ 


168  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

pels  in  "  La  Henriade."  We  do  not  so  much  enjoy  the  long 
interview  between  the  English  queen  and  the  French  prince 
when  Ave  know  that  Henry  of  Navarre  never  crossed  the 
Channel,  nor  looked  upon  Elizabeth's  face.  To  the  French 
reader  of  1724  devices  of  that  nature  seemed  legitimate,  and, 
such  was  the  ignorance  of  educated  Frenchmen  then  of  their 
own  history,  that  most  readers  could  accept  the  narrative  as 
substantially  true.  "  In  my  childhood,"'  says  Voltaire,  "  no 
one  knew  anything  of  Henry  IV."  Most  readers  of  that 
generation  brought  to  the  perusal  of  this  poem  minds  less  ac- 
quainted with  the  great  contest  between  Protestants  and  Cath- 
olics in  France  than  with  the  condemnation  of  Socrates  or  the 
wars  of  Ca3sar  and  Pompey. 

The  best  office  that  literature  renders  a  nation  is  to  keep  it 
vividly  acquainted  with  its  history,  and  to  give  that  history  its 
true  interpretation.  In  publishing  this  poem,  Voltaire  did  not 
add  to  the  treasures  of  the  human  mind  one  more  immortal 
epic ;  but  he  began  the  arduous  work,  not  yet  complete,  of 
'"making  France  understand  how  it  was  that  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  when  the  nations  came,  one  after  another,  to  the 
parting  of  the  ways,  and  had  to  choose  between  the  upward 
and  the  downward  road,  France  was  prevented  from  making 
the  right  choice.  There  was  more  heat  than  liglit  in  the 
.  poem.     The  author  of  it  had  more  heat  than  light.     He  felt, 

<i  as  few  have  ever  felt,  the  evils  that  come  to  men  from  intoler- 

•  ant  religion  ;  but  he  could  not,  at  that  early  day,  regard  intol- 
erant religion  merely  as  a  mark  of  imperfect  development:  its 
-'-T^jcause,  the  ignorance  and  timidity  of  man  ;  its  cure,  increase 
[of  knowledge  and  safer  abundance. 

The  poem  continued  to  make  its  way  over  Europe,  receiv- 
ing in  due  time  all  the  honors:  translation,  imitation,  sup- 
pression, papal  anathema,  piracy,  parody,  burlesque,  general 
approval,  and  universal  currency.  A  French  bibliographer 
computes  the  sale  in  the  first  hundred  and  twenty-five  years  of 
its  existence  at  335,000  copies,  in  seven  languages,  —  French, 
Italian,  Latin,  German,  Russian,  Dutch,  and  English.^  "  All 
the  world  is  making  epic  poems,"  wrote  Voltaire  in  1725;  "I 
have  brought  poems  into  fashion."  Marais  has  a  similar  entry 
in  his  diary  :  "  The  poets  write  nothing  but  epics,"  —  "  Clovis," 

1  Bibliographie  Voltairienne,  par  J.  M.  Querard,  page  23. 


\ 


I 


"LA  HENRIADE"  PUBLISHED.  169 

in  eio-lit  cantos,  one  of  them.  The  career  of  the  robber  Car- 
touche,  lately  executed,  was  the  subject  of  one  parody.  A 
poem  called  "La  Demoniade,"  or  magic  unmasked,  was  an- 
other. A  pirate  printer  published  an  edition  in  Holland,  and 
got  many  copies  into  Paris.  The  police,  when  everybody  had 
read  the  poem,  and  most  collectors  possessed  it,  hunted  it 
down  with  such  exemplary  vigilance  that  it  became  at  length 
as  Marais  records,  really  difficult  to  buy  a  copy,  and  finally, 
for  a  short  time,  impossible. 

In  the  midst  of  his  first  elation,  just  as  friends  and  sub- 
scribers were  receiving  their  copies,  and  every  hour  brought  to 
the  author  some  new  reminder  of  his  glory,  the  new  tragedy 
"Marianme"  was  performed  at  the  Theatre  FranQais  for  the 
first  time.  Monday,  March  6,  1724,  was  the  date.  The  thea-  3  3 
tre  was  crowded  almost  beyond  precedent,  the  money  taken 
amounting  to  five  thousand  five  hundred  and  thirty  francs. 
The  part  of  the  Queen  of  Palestine,  the  ill-starred  Mariamne, 
was  played  by  Madame  Lecouvreur,  the  queen  of  the  tragic 
stage.  The  author  was  present,  with  a  crowd  of  his  friends 
and  admirers,  many  of  whom  had  shed  tears  on  hearing  the 
play  read.  All  went  well  until  the  middle  of  the  third  act, 
when  King  Herod  enters  for  the  first  time  upon  the  scene 
It  is  a  risk  to  hold  so  long  in  reserve  a  chief  character,  whose 
entrance  may  not  fulfill  the  expectation  created.  Moliere  vent- 
ures this  in  Tartuffe,  and  with  success,  for  Tartuffe  fills  and 
holds  the  stage  at  every  instant  when  he  is  visible.  It  was 
otherwise  with  a  King  Herod,  who  was  as  odious  as  Tartuffe, 
but  not  as  interesting.  "  I  perceived,"  says  Voltaire,  "  the 
moment  Herod  appeared,  that  it  was  impossible  the  piece 
should  succeed."  The  audience  bore  it,  however,  very  good- 
naturedly,  it  seems,  until  near  the  close  of  the  play,  when  the 
hapless  queen,  lifts  the  cup  of  poison  to  her  lips.  A  wag  in 
the  pit  broke  the  silence  of  the  moment  by  crying  out,  "  The 
QUEEN  DRINKS  !  " 

This  was  an  allusion  to  the  revels  of  Twelfth  Night,  famil- 
iar then  to  every  auditor,  at  which  a  king  and  queen  were 
chosen  by  lot ;  and  whenever  one  of  them  lifted  a  flagon  to 
drink  this  cry  was  raised,  and  a  prodigious  uproar  ensued, 
in  burlesque  imitation  of  that  ancient  usage  which  Hamlet 
thought   more  honored  in  the  breach  than  the  observance : 


170  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

"  The  king  doth  wake  to-night,  ....  and,  as  he  drains  his 
draughts  of  Rhenish  down,  the  kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus 
bray  out  the  triumph  of  his  pledge."  '■'•  La  reine  hoit^''''  said 
the  voice  in  the  middle  of  the  pit.  The  audience  relieved  its 
feelings  by  making  the  usual  Twelfth  Night  uproar,  and  the 
rest  of  the  play  was  performed  in  dumb  show.  The  new  trag- 
edy had  failed.  The  docile,  indomitable  author,  agreeing  with 
the  audience,  withdrew  it  from  the  theatre  to  alter  and  try  it 
again.  "  The  new  tragedy,"  remarks  Marais,  "  fell  at  the  first 
representation.  Dramatic  poetry  differs  from  epic,  and  one 
man  has  not  all  the  talents." 


11 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

VOLTAIRE   A    COUETIER. 

liiPORTANT  events  were  occurring  at  court  during  these 
years.  A  virtuous  woman  was  coming  to  preside  over  it,  as  if 
to  give  the  rSgime  another  chance  for  its  life.  Kind  death,  in 
August,  1723,  relieved  France  of  Cardinal  Dubois,  debauchee  of 
sixty-seven,  who  died  cursing  the  surgeons  for  the  pain  they 
had  given  him  in  trying  to  prolong  his  shameful  existence. 
By  way  of  epitaph,  the  Duke  of  St.  Simon  gives  the  list  of 
the  eight  rich  benefices  held  by  this  consecrated  sarcasm, 
worth  324,000  francs  per  annum,  as  well  as  of  his  civil  posts, 
which  yielded  250,000 ;  to  say  nothing  of  his  annual  bribe 
from  England  of  960,000  more.  Funereal  ceremonies  of  the 
usual  magnificence  were  held  in  Notre  Dame,  Cardinal  de 
Noailles  officiating ;  "  but,"  says  honest  St.  Simon,  "  there 
was  no  oration ;  they  dared  not  hazard  it .''  "  ^ 

They  dared  not,  because  the  government  of  France  was  a 
despotism  tempered  by  epigrams. 

His  master,  the  regent,  followed  him  soon.  In  Decem- 
ber of  the  same  year,  while  sitting  before  the  fire  with 
the  Duchess  of  Phalaris,  one  of  his  mistresses,  chatting  gayly 
enough  with  her  before  going  in  to  the  young  king  on  busi- 
ness, the  Duke  of  Orleans  was  seized  with  apoplexy,  and  died 
in  half  an  hour.  He  was  in  the  prime  of  his  age,  forty-nine, 
and  owed  his  death  wholly  to  sensual  indulgences  of  all 
kinds,  sustained  with  a  continuity  of  excess  of  which  no  ani- 
mal but  man  is  capable,  and  few  men  besides  Bourbons. 

The  person  highest  in  rank  after  the  Duke  of  Orleans 
was  the  Prince  of  Condd,  then  commonly  styled  the  Duke 
of  Bourbon,  —  an  avaricious  young  man,  not  yet  thirty-two, 
governed  by  his  mistress,  the  Marquise  de  Prie.  While  the 
king,  a  boy  of    fourteen,  was  still    in    tears    for    his  uncle  s 

1  19  M^moires,  137. 


172  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

sudden  death,  the  Duke  of  Bourbon  asked  for  the  place  of 
prime  minister.  The  bewildered  lad  gave  a  nod  of  assent ; 
and  behold  fair  France  the  helpless  prey  of  a  reckless,  fasci- 
nating woman  !  Such  is  personal  government.  In  July,  1724, 
the  king  and  court  were  the  guests  of  the  Duke  of  Bourbon 
at  Chantilly,  the  magnificent  seat  of  the  Condes,  twenty-four 
miles  northeast  of  Paris,  where  there  was  a  hunting-park  of 
seven  thousand  acres,  one  of  the  finest  in  Europe.  AJl  that 
France  had  of  sj^lendid  and  alluring  was  gathered  in  that 
superb  chateau,  wherein  the  great  Condd  had  loved  to  wel- 
come the  princes  of  the  blood  and  the  princes  of  the  mind. 
The  frequent  presence  of  Racine,  Boileau,  and  Moliere  had 
rendered  this  chateau  a  kind  of  classic  edifice. 
(--^  >  Strange  to  say,  all  these  resounding  events  touched  and 
nearly  concerned  our  invalid  poet.  An  intellectualized  per- 
son of  his  temperament  and  constitution  cannot  undergo  two 
bleedings,  a  course  of  medicine,  two  hundred  pints  of  lemon- 
ade, and  the  small-pox  without  languishing  a  long  time 
afterwards  in  ill  health.  In  the  summer  of  1724,  be  fled 
from  the  noise  of  the  Quai  des  Th^atins  and  the  hootings 
of  the  loarterre^  and  accompanied  the  young  Duke  of  Riche- 
lieu to  Forges,  twenty  miles  beyond  Rouen,  the  waters  of  which 
were  brought  into  repute  by  Cardinal  de  Richelieu  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIII.  To  this  day  one  of  its  springs  is  called 
"  La  Cardinale."  Voltaire  was  much  caressed  at  this  time 
by  the  nobleman  who  bore  the  name  rendered  illustrious  by 
the  great  statesman.  We  find  him  employed,  in  1724,  in 
selecting  a  "governor  for  the  duke's  pages,"  and  choosing  a 
young  man  of  intelligence,  noble  birth,  good  appearance,  a 
geometer,  and  "  one  every  way  suitable  to  pages."  But  the 
duke  wanted  a  draughtsman,  not  a  geometer,  and  thought  the 
post  beneath  the  merits  of  the  candidate. 

He  improved  in  health  at  Forges,  but  not,  as  he  thought, 
by  drinking  its  acrid  waters.  "  There  is  more  viti'iol,"  he 
wrote,  "  in  a  bottle  of  Forges  water  than  in  a  bottle  of  ink ; 
and,  candidly,  I  do  not  believe  that  ink  is  so  very  good  for  the 
health."  It  was  not  indeed  in  his  case,  his  passion  for  using  it 
filwavs  making  it  ditficult  for  him  to  regain  lost  vigor.  Even 
here  he  was  busy  recasting  "  Mariamne,"  retouching  "  La 
Henriade,"  and  writing,  for  one  of  his  duke's  fetes^   a  one- 


1 


VOLTAIRE   A  COUIITIER.  173 

act  comedy  in  verse,  the  agreeable  and  sprightly  trifle  called 
"•  L'Indiscret,"  read  at  Forges  with  drawuig-room  success.  "  Ex- 
act regimen,"  however,  had  its  effect,  and  he  was  soon  able, 
as  he  said,  to  think  of  something  besides  his  bodily  pains.  "  I 
am  ashamed,"  lie  wrote  to  Madame  de  Bernieres,  "  to  present 
mysell:  to  my  friends  with  a  weak  digestion  and  a  downcast 
mind.  I  wish  to  give  you  only  my  beautiful  days,  and  to  suffer 
incognito^ 

A  tragic  event,  which  brought  the  royal  festivities  of  Chan- 
tilly  to  an  abrupt  conclusion,  detained  him  at  Forges.  The 
Duke  of  Richelieu  and  the  Duke  of  Melun,  while  hunting  one 
Saturday  of  this  July  in  the  great  park  of  Chantilly,  brought 
to  bay  a  huge  stag  in  a  narrow  defile,  and  the  animal,  in  a 
blind  fury,  charged  upon  them.  The  Duke  of  Melun's  horse, 
at  the  moment  when  he  was  trying  to  cross  the  stag,  received 
in  his  side  the  full  force  of  the  blow,  when  horse,  stag,  and 
rider  all  fell  together.  The  two  sportsmen  were  alone. 
Richelieu  rescued  his  friend  from  the  struggling  animals, 
staunched  his  bleeding  wounds,  and  sustained  him  three  quar- 
ters of  an  hour,  until,  the  huntsmen  coming  up,  the  injured 
man  was  conveyed  to  the  chateau.  He  lingered  from  Sat- 
urday afternoon  until  Monday  morning  at  half  past  six,  when 
lie  died  in  the  Duke  of  Bourbon's  arms,  in  the  presence  of 
all  the  court.  The  king  instantly  departed  for  Versailles, 
leaving  death  and  desolation  at  this  magnificent  abode,  where, 
until  the  accident,  all  had  been  adjusted  and  attuned  to 
profuse  and  splendid  hospitality.  Richelieu,  idle  profligate  as 
he  was,  was  overwhelmed  with  sorrow.  "  I  cannot  abandon 
him  in  his  grief,"  wrote  Voltaire.  He  remained  at  Foi'ges 
with  the  duke  fifteen  days  longer,  returning  to  Paris  _m 
September,  where  he  lived  at  the  Hotel  de  Bernieres  "  in 
solitude  and  suffering,  relieving  both  by  moderate  labor." 

A  pleasing  prospect  of  a  long  journey  to  new  scenes  rose 
before  him  in  the  month  of  his  return  to  Paris.  The  Duke 
of  Bourbon  consoled  the  surviving  Richelieu  by  appointing 
him  ambassador  to  Vienna,  and  Voltaire  hastened  to  get  the 
place  of  ambassador's  secretary  for  his  comrade  Thieriot, 
promising  to  follow  him  to  Vienna  as  soon  as  he  could  work 
himself  free  of  immediate  literary  engagements.  "  I  told  the 
duke,"  he  wrote  to  Thieriot,  "  that,  since  I  could  not  go  so 


174  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

soon  to  Vienna,  I  would  send  half  of  myself,  and  the  other 
half  would  quickly  follow  ;  "  adding  that  he  cared  little  for  the 
"  titled  minxes  of  the  court,"  which  he  renounced  forever, 
"  through  the  weakness  of  his  stomach  and  the  force  of  his 
reason."  Great  was  his  disappointment  when  he  received  in 
reply  to  his  exultant  letter  a  note  from  Thieriot,  dryly  and  dis- 
dainfully refusing  the  post,  saying  that  he  was  not  made  to  be 
the  domestic  of  a  great  lord.  Voltaire,  upon  whom  the  idle 
young  duke  had  devolved  the  business  of  finding  a  secretary, 
offered  the  place  to  another,  who  accepted  it.  Then  he  wrote 
to  Thieriot,  patiently  explaining  and  apologizing,  upon  which 
Thieriot  accepted  also. 

Here  was  an  embarrassment.  But  Voltaire,  irascible,  sus- 
ceptible, impetuous,  was  patience  itself  whenever  the  matter 
in  hand  was  to  serve  a  friend.  He  exhibited  Thieriot  to  the 
ambassadoi"  in  a  light  so  pleasing  that,  finally,  rather  than 
lose  such  a  treasure,  Richelieu  agreed  to  take  two  secretaries. 
Then  Thieriot,  to  his  friend's  extreme  mortification,  declined 
the  post  again.  Voltaire,  with  wonderful  moderation,  wrote 
to  him,  "  You  have  caused  me  a  little  trouble  by  your  irreso- 
lution. You  have  made  me  give  two  or  three  different  replies 
to  M.  de  Richelieu,  who  believed  that  I  was  trifling  with  him. 
I  heartily  forgive  you  since  you  remain  with  us.  I  did  too 
much  violence  to  my  feelings  when  I  wished  to  tear  myself 
from  you  in  order  to  make  your  fortune.  If  the  same  princi- 
ple of  friendship  which  forced  me  to  send  you  to  Vienna  hin- 
ders you  from  going  thither,  and  if,  besides,  you  are  content 
with  your  destiny,  I  am  sufficiently  happy,  and  have  nothing 
more  to  desire  except  better  health."  And  so  ended  the  first 
of  a  long  series  of  attempts,  on  the  part  of  Voltaire,  to  get 
some  better  footing  in  the  world  for  this  thriftless,  agreeable 
companion  of  his  youth.  Thieriot  objected  mortally  to  steady 
toil  and  leaving  Paris,  and  he  passed  a  long  life  in  ingen- 
iously avoiding  both. 

The  year  1725  brought  various  good  fortune  to  Voltaire. 

His  "  Mariamne,"  recast,  was  played  in  April  with  respectable 
success,  having  eighteen  successive  representations,  besides 
many  occasional  repetitions  and  short  runs,  during  the  year. 
His  little  comedy  of  court  life,  "  LTndiscret,"  was  playe^  with 
the  tragedy  as  an  afterpiece,  with  applause,   and   both  were 


fi 


VOLTAIRE  A  COURTIER.  175 

printed  and  pirated  in  the  usual  way.  He  was  obliged  to 
print  both  plays  at  his  own  expense,  because,  as  he  wrote, 
"  the  pirate  editions  cut  the  publisher's  throat."  He  was 
gaining  with  the  public  in  many  ways,  and  doubtless  other 
Frenchmen  said  in  conversation  what  Matliieu  Marais  entered 

in  his  diary  in  April,  1725,  "  Voltaire  is  the  greatest  poet  we  

possess." 

If  the  court  had  been  as  sensitive  as  the  church  to  satire, 
the  censor  would  not  have  given  him  the  privilege  of  printing 
"  L'Indiscret,"  which  exhibits  court  life  and  character  very 
much  in  the  spirit  of  Beaumarchais's  "  Figaro."  The  hero  is 
a  court  puppy,  who  loses  his  "  adorable  widow  "  by  blabbing 
boastfully  of  his  conquest.  "  Colonel  at  thirteen,"  remarks 
the  indiscreet  lover,  "  I  think  it  but  reasonable  to  expect  a 
marshal's  baton  at  thirty."  Many  other  Figai^o  strokes  mark 
this  comedy ;  but  the  regime  felt  itself  invincible  and  invul- 
nerable, and  therefore  the  little  comedy  got  afloat  upon  the 
current,  to  amuse  and  assist  to  form  unborn  Beaumarchais. 
The  boxes,  as  Marais  reports,  were  not  too  well  pleased  to  find 
themselves  so  accurately  delineated ;  but  the  play  succeeded, 
notwithstanding.  Voltaire  was  winning  credit  and  celebrity, 
which,  as  he  remarked,  are  agreeable,  but  not  nourishing.  It 
does  not  improve  an  author's  fortune,  nor  his  temper,  to  print 
his  works  at  his  own  expense  against  pirated  editions  at  home  -rr^ 
and  abroad, — two  of  the  "  Henriade,"  three  of  "  Mariamne," 
and  one  of  "  L'Indiscret." 

But  a  great  event  was  impending  in  the  summer  of  17257? 
full  of  hope  to  poets  and  artists  in  that  age  of  patronage  audi 
pensions:    nothing  less  than  the  marriage  of  the  rude  boy-  , 
king,  whom  the  "  titled  minxes  of  the  court "  had  tried  in  vain , 
to  seduce,  so  well  had  the  Abbe  de  Fleury  made  him  learn  his  [  X;, 
catechism.     Whom  should  he  marry  ?     A  friend  of  our  poet,  ) 
and  of  all  poets,  pointed  out  the  lady.  '  » 

This  regime  of  personal  government  in  France  could  not 
have  long  maintained  itself  if  it  had  been  tempered  by  epi- 
grams only.  It  was  tempered  and  saved  by  solid  merit  and 
genuine  ability,  won  from  the  uncorrupt  classes.  The  incom- 
petent young  man  styled  the  Duke  of  Bourbon,  prime  minis- 
ter of  the  king,  had  for  secretary  and  man  of  confidence  one  of 
the  best  business  heads  in  Europe,  Paris-Duverney,  one  of  four 


X- 


y 


176  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

able  brothers,  sons  of  an  innkeeper.  He  was  antidote  in 
France  to  the  inflating  adventurer,  John  Law,  and  saved  his 
country  more  than  once  from  the  imbeciles  who  patronized 
such  adventurers.  Paris-Duverney  it  was  who  suggested  the 
policy  which  gave  to  the  French  court  for  forty  years  the 
presence  of  the  virtuous  woman  just  alluded  to.  Voltaire, 
Avho  records  this  fact,  was  connected  with  Paris-Duverney  in 
various  ways  for  half  a  century,  and  owed  to  him,  ten  years 
later,  a  vast  increase  of  fortune.  "It  was  Paris-Duverney," 
says  Voltaii'e,  "  who  conceived  the  idea  of  marrying  the  king 
to  the  daughter  of  Stanislas  Leczinski."  ^ 

Both  Stanislas  and  his  daughter  are  characters  in  Voltaire's 
eventful  story  :  the  daughter  at  this  period,  the  father  at  a 
later  day. 

JVIarie  Leczinski,   Queen   of   France   from   1725   to   1768, 

makes  her  first  appearance  in  history  as  an  infant,  twelve 
months  old,  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  horse-trough  in  front  of 
a  village  inn  in  Poland.  She  was  the  daughter  of  that  young 
Stanislas  whom  Charles  XII.  placed  upon  the  throne  of  Po- 
land, after  having  driven  from  it  its  rightful  occupant,  Augus- 
tus the  Strong.  The  reign  of  this  young  gentleman  was  short 
and  troubled.  Only  a  few  days  after  his  coronation,  learning 
that  he  was  about  to  be  attacked  by  the  dethroned  king,  he 
suddenly  sent  his  family  to  a  place  of  safety,  under  the  guard 
of  a  faithful  troop  of  soldiers.  It  was  during  this  flight  that 
the  nurse  of  his  daughter  Marie,  either  from  fatigue  or  terror, 
laid  the  child  in  the  horse-trough  and  abandoned  it  to  its  fate. 
It  was  fovmd  the  next  morning  by  accident,  and  conveyed  to 
its  mother. 

After  reigning  four  years.  King  Stanislas,  sharing  in  the 
misfortunes  of  the  Swedish  king,  lost  his  crown,  and  became 
a  wanderer  over  Europe.  First  he  took  refuge  in  Germany ; 
then  fled  to  Sweden  ;  next  he  sought  safety  in  Turkey ;  and 
finally  established  himself  in  one  of  the  small  German  states, 
where  he  lived  upon  a  small  annuity  which  was  irregularly 
paid.  During  these  wanderings,  which  lasted  many  years,  his 
daughter  Marie  grew  to  womanhood.  She  was  a  young  lady 
of  small  stature  and  pleasing  appearance,  though  not  of  strik- 
ing beauty.  Her  education,  conducted  in  part  by  her  parents, 
1  Histoire  du  Parleraent  de  Paris,  chapter  Ixviii. 


VOLTAIRE   A  COURTIEE.  177 

embraced  several  languages,  as  well  as  drawing  and  music,  and 
she  was  reared  in  the  pious  habits  inculcated  by  the  Catholic 
religion.  At  the  age  of  twenty  she  had  as  little  prospect  of 
being  Queen  of  France  as  any  young  lady  in  Europe.  One 
morning  her  father,  entering  the  room  where  she  was  seated 
at  work  with  her  mother,  said,  in  a  joyful  tone,  — 

"  Let  us  kneel  and  thank  God !  " 

"  Father,"  said  Marie,  "  are  you  recalled  to  the  throne  of 
Poland?" 

"  Ah,  my  daughter,"  was  the  reply,  "  Heaven  is  far  more 
favorable  to  us  than  that.     You  are  Queen  of  France  !  " 

As  he  said  these  words  he  showed  her  the  letter  in  which 
the  prime  minister  of  France  asked  her  hand  in  marriage  for 
the  young  king,  Louis  XV. 

This  remarkable  change  of  fortune  was  as  much  a  surprise 
to  France  and  to  Europe  as  it  was  to  herself.  When  Louis 
XV.  inherited  the  throne  of  France  he  was,  as  we  have  seen, 
a  sickly  boy,  five  years  of  age.  This  poor  little  life  was  all 
there  was  between  France  and  the  danger  of  civil  war;  since, 
if  he  died,  the  Bourbon  King  of  Spain  had  claims  to  the 
throne,  and  those  claims  would  have  been  resisted  by  other 
princes  of  the  reigning  house.  It  is  difficult  for  an  American 
citizen  to  realize  the  fond  anxiety  with  which  the  French  peo- 
ple watched  the  growth  and  listened  to  bulletins  of  the  health 
of  this  little  boy.  When  he  was  sick  the  churches  filled  with 
people,  who,  prostrate  upon  their  knees,  implored  his  restora- 
tion ;  and  when  he  appeared  in  Paris,  in  improved  health  and 
vigor,  the  whole  city  rejoiced,  and  blazed  into  an  illumination 
in  the  evening.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  had  made  a  match  for 
him  with  a  daughter  of  the  King  of  Spain,  when  she  was  but 
three  years  of  age  and  Louis  eight.  To  make  assurance  doubly 
sure,  the  little  princess  was  brought  to  Paris,  where  she  was 
to  reside  until  of  suitable  age  for  marriage ;  and  there,  indeed, 
she  lived  for  several  years.  In  the  mean  time,  the  boy-king 
had  been  growing  up  into  a  vigorous  and  muscular  youth. 
When  he  was  but  fifteen  years  of  age,  one  of  his  courtiers  said 
to  him,  "  Sire,  your  majesty  is  old  enough  to  give  a  dauphin 
to  France." 

Upon  this  hint  the  ministry  acted,  and  it  was  certainly  a 
matter  of  the  greatest  importance  to  the  kingdom  that  another 


VOL.  I.  12 


178  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

life  sliovild  be  interposed  between  Fi-ance  and  civil  war.  But 
the  Spanish  princess,  to  whom  the  young  king  was  solemnly 
pledged,  was  not  yet  eleven  years  of  age,  and  Louis,  from  the 
moment  of  his  first  interview  with  her,  had  exhibited  an  aver- 
sion to  her  person.  It  was  resolved,  therefore,  at  the  risk  of 
mortally  offending  Spain,  to  send  her  home  to  Madrid,  and 
look  about  Europe  for  another  princess  for  the  king's  hand. 
By  means  of  the  French  ministers  resident  at  foreign  courts, 
and  by  more  private  agents,  a  catalogue  was  drawn  tip  of  all 
the  marriageable  princesses  in  Europe,  seventeen  in  number, 
with  a  description  of  the  person,  character,  expectations,  and 
religion  of  each.  None  of  them,  it  appears,  would  quite  an- 
swer the  purpose.  One  came  of  a  family  in  which  madness 
was  hereditary ;  another  was  a  Protestant,  and  would  object 
to  be  converted  ;  another  was  already  engaged ;  another  was 
ill-looking  ;  another  was  too  young  ;  another  was  of  too  little 
importance  in  the  politics  of  Europe  ;  another  was  said  to  be 
humpbacked;  and  another  was  suspected  of  being  scrofulous. 
~n  These  objections  being  fatal  to  the  pretensions  of  the  seven- 
teen, it  occurred  to  the  Duke  of  Bourbon's  astute  secretary 
that  it  would  be  a  master  stroke  of  policy  to  select  a  princess 
who  would  owe  the  throne  entirely  to  that  prince,  and  who 
would  feel  herself  bound  in  common  gratitude  to  exert  all  her 
influence  in  his  favor. 

It  was  this  idea  which  led  to  the  choice  of  Marie.  "When 
the  news  of  the  strange  selection  was  buzzed  about  the  court, 
one  of  the  anti-Bourbon  party  spread  the  report  that  the 
Polish  princess  was  subject  to  fits,  which  so  terrified  the  min- 
istry that  they  sent  in  haste  a  secret  agent  to  the  village  in 
which  Stanislas  lived  to  inquire  into  the  truth  of  the  report. 
He  sent  home  word  that  the  lady  had  never  had  a  fit,  and  was 
in  all  respects  in  sound  condition  for  marriage.  She  was  next 
accused  of  having  something  the  matter  with  one  of  her  hands, 
and  this  calumny  was  refuted  by  no  less  a  person  than  the 
Cardinal  de  Rohan.  All  obstacles  to  the  marriage  being  thus 
removed,  the  letter  was  written  to  which  reference  has  already 
been  made.  Neither  the  father  nor  tlie  daughter  made  the 
slightest  objection  to  the  match,  although  the  prhicess  was 
twenty-one  and  the  king  fifteen.  Preparations  for  the  mar- 
riage were  made  in   the  greatest  haste.     One  of  the  secret 


VOLTAIRE  A  COURTIER.  179 

agents  of  the  ministry  sent  a  petticoat  of  the  princess  to  Paris 
for  the  guidance  of  her  dressmakers ;  also  one  of  her  gloves, 
and  an  old  slipper  for  the  benefit  of  her  shoemaker.  She  was 
conveyed  to  Paris  with  all  possible  pomp  and  splendor,  and 
the  marriage  was  performed  with  the  customary  magnificence. 
The  father  of  the  bride  took  up  his  abode  in  one  of  the  French 
provinces,  where  he  lived  to  a  great  old  age  upon  a  munificent 
pension  from  the  French  government.  Queen  Marie  appears 
to  have  been  a  truly  estimable  lady.  Some  sayings  of  hers 
which  have  come  down  to  us  do  honor  to  her  memory.  The 
following,  for  example :  "  If  there  were  no  little  people  in  the 
world,  we  should  not  be  great,  and  we  ought  not  to  be  great 
except  for  their  sakes."  "  To  boast  of  one's  rank  is  to  show 
that  we  are  beneath  our  rank."  "  Good  kings  are  slaves,  and 
their  people  are  free."  "  The  treasures  of  the  state  are  not 
ours ;  we  have  no  right  to  spend  in  arbitrary  gifts  the  money 
earned  by  the  artisan  and  the  laborer."  "  It  is  better  to  listen 
to  those  who  cry  to  us  from  afar,  '  Solace  our  misery,'  than  to 
those  who  whisper  in  our  ears,  '  Increase  our  fortunes.'  " 

It  is  pleasing  to  know  that  the  object  of  the  Duke  of  Bour- 
bon in  promoting  this  marriage  was  not  accomplished.  The 
Abbe  de  Fleury,  preceptor  to  the  king,  had  obtained  that 
ascendency  over  the  dull  boy  that  belonged  to  his  place  and 
character.  Whatever  virtue  and  purity  this  king  ever  pos- 
sessed he  owed  to  his  governess,  Madame  de  Ventadour,  and  to 
this  priest,  a  man  at  least  free  from  the  lower  vices  of  the 
court  and  time.  It  is  not  saying  much  for  the  tutor,  but  so 
much  may  be  said.  For  ten  years  Louis  XV.  lived  decently 
with  his  wife  ;  and,  at  a  later  period,  when  he  was  the  most 
licentious  king  in  Europe,  he  was  never  quite  at  ease  in  his 
conscience.  He  was  liable  to  fits  of  alarm,  if  not  of  contrition. 
It  is  recorded  of  him  —  oh,  wondrous  fact !  —  that  he  could 
not,  with  a  good  conscience,  in  his  most  debauched  period  go 
to  bed  without  first  kneeling  down  and  saying  his  pi-ayers  I 
Such  is  the  power  and  such  is  the  impotence  of  early  drill  in 
pious  observances !  The  coming  of  the  good  queen  was  fol- 
lowed within  a  few  months  by  the  abrupt  dismissal  of  the 
Duke  of  Bourbon  and  his  scandalous,  extravagant  De  Prie. 
The  virtuous,  frugal,  cautious  Cardinal  de  Fleury  ruled  France 
for  twenty  years.     The  reign  of  mistresses  was  suspended  for 


L 


180  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

a  while  ;  the  court  was  comparatively  decent ;  expenditure  waa 
curtailed  ;  a  policy  of  peace  was  maintained ;  and  France  had 
M  another  chance  of  escaping  revolution  by  reform.  Cardinal  de 
Fleury  was  not  a  Richelieu ;  but,  in  the  circumstances,  he 
was,  perhaps,  as  good  and  as  great  a  minister  as  could  have 
kept  the  place. 
(  In  the  festivities  of  this  royal  marriage  Voltaire  took  part, 
and  it  was  the  Mai'quise  de  Prie  who  gave  him  the  opportu- 
nity. During  the  summer  of  1724  he  had  paid  court  to  her, 
as  all  the  world  in  that  century  paid  court  to  the  woman  who 
governed  the  man  who  governed  the  state.  He  sent  her  a 
copy  of  "  L'Indiscret,"  with  an  epistle  in  verse,  in  which  he 
assured  her  that  if  the  adorable  widow  of  his  comedv  had 
possessed  Tier  beauty  the  hero's  blabbing  would  have  been 
pardonable ;  for  what  lover  would  not  have  been  tempted  to 
speak  of  such  a  mistress,  either  by  excess  of  vanity  or  excess 
of  tenderness  !  He  had  his  reward.  Madame  de  Prie,  before 
leaving  Paris,  gave  him  an  order  upon  the  door-keeper  of  her 
house  at  Fontainebleau,  whei'e  the  honeymoon  was  to  be 
passed,  assigning  him  rooms  therein.  "  I  shall  see  the  mar- 
riage of  the  queen,"  he  wrote  to  Madame  de  Bernidres.  "  I 
shall  compose  verses  for  her,  if  she  is  worth  the  trouble.  I 
would  rather  write  verses  for  you,  if  you  loved  me."  In  Sep- 
tember, therefore,  with  all  the  gay  and  splendid  world  of 
France,  he  was  first  at  Versailles,  then  at  Fontainebleau, 
bearing  his  part  in  the  marriage  festival,  sometimes  as  po_et, 
sometimes  as  spectator,  always  as  expectant. 

One  incident,  interesting  to  Americans,  made  such  an  im- 
pression on  his  mind  that  he  mentions  it  three  or  four  times 
in  his  works :  "  In  1725  I  saw  four  savages  who  had  been 
brought  from  the  Mississippi  to  Fontainebleau.  Among  them 
was  a  woman,  ash-colored  like  her  companions,  whom  I 
asked,  through  their  interpreter,  whether  she  had  ever  eaten 
human  flesh.  'Yes,'  she  replied,  very  coolly,  as  to  an  ordi- 
nary question."  Writing  thirty  years  after,  he  adds :  "  I  ap- 
peared a  little  scandalized,  when  she  excused  herself  by  say- 
ing that  it  was  better  to  eat  a  dead  enemy  than  to  let  the 
wild  beasts  eat  him  ;  the  conquerors  ought  to  have  the  pref- 
erence." ^  It  was  a  spectacle  of  extreme  curiosity  to  the 
'  Essai  sur  les  Ma-urs,  chap,  cxlvi.,  aud  Diet.  Pliilos.,  article  Antliropophages. 


i 


VOLTAIEE   A   COURTIER.  181 

French  of  1725,  the  Indian  lodge  in  the  park  of  Fontaine- 
bleau ;  and  to  no  one  more  interesting  than  to  this  bored 
poet.  . 

He  passed  three  tedious,  laborious   months  at  court ;  and !      /, 
his  letters  of  the  period  show  that,  courtier  as  he  was,  and  ^         (^ 
suitor  of  court  favor,  he  felt  all  the  ridicule  of  the  situation,  |      0^ 
the  unspeakable  absurdity  of  the  regime  of  which  he  desired 
to  make  part.     I  select  a  few  sentences :  — 

[A.t  Versailles,  just  before  the  marriage.]  "Every  one  here  pays 
court  to  Madame  de  Beseuval,  who  is  a  distant  relation  of  the  (jueen. 
This  lady,  who  has  some  esprit,  receives  with  much  modesty  the 
marks  of  baseness  which  are  given  her.  I  saw  her  yesterday  at  the 
house  of  Marshal  de  Villars.  Some  one  asked  her  what  relation  she 
was  to  the  queen.  She  replied  that  queens  have  no  relations.  These 
nuptials  of  Louis  XV.  are  an  injury  to  poor  Voltaire.  They  talk  of 
not  paying  the  pensions,  and  even  of  not  preserving  them  ;  but  in 
recompense  a  new  tax  is  to  be  imposed,  to  buy  laces  and  fabrics  for 
Mademoiselle  Leczinska.  This  is  like  the  marriage  of  the  sun,  which 
made  the  frogs  murmur.  I  have  been  but  three  days  at  Versailles, 
and  already  I  wish  myself  out  of  it." 

[Fontainebleau,  September  17th,  after  the  marriage.]  "Two  no- 
blemen died  to-night.  Assuredly,  both  of  them  took  their  time  ill ;  for 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  hullabaloo  of  the  king's  marriage,  their  deaths 

made  not  the  least  sensation Every  one  here  is  enchanted 

with  the  queen's  goodness  and  politeness.  The  first  thing  she  did 
after  her  marriage  was  to  distribute  among  the  princesses  and  ladies 
of  the  palace  all  the  magnificent  trifles  which  they  call  her  casket, 
consisting  of  jewels  of  every  kind  except  diamonds.  When  she  saw 
the  casket  wherein  they  were  placed  she  said,  '  This  is  the  first  time 
in  my  life  that  I  have  been  able  to  make  presents.'  She  had  on  a 
little  rouge  on  her  wedding-day,  — as  much  as  was  necessary  to  keep 
her  from  looking  pale.  She  fainted  a  moment  in  the  chapel,  but  only 
for  form's  sake.  There  was  comedy  the  same  day.  I  had  prepared 
a  little  divertisement,  which  M.  de  Mortemart  [first  gentleman]  was 
not  willing  to  have  executed.  They  gave  in  its  place  'Amphytryon  ' 
and  Moliere's  '  Le  Medecin  Malgre  Lui,'  which  did  not  seem  too 
suitable.     After  supper  there  were  fire-works  of  very  little  ingenuity 

or  variety For  the  rest,  there  is  a  confusion  here,  a  pressure,  a 

tumult,  that  are  frightful.  During  these  first  days  of  hubbub  I  shall 
avoid  having  myself  presented  to  the  queen.  1  shall  wait  until  the 
crowd  has  subsided,  and  her  majesty  has  recovered  a  little  from  the 
bewilderment  caused  by   all   this  sahhat.     Then  I  shall  try  to  have 


-.i" 


182  LIFE  OF   VOLTAIRE.      - 

'  Q^dipe  '  and  '  Mariamne '  played  before  her.  I  shall  dedicate 
both  to  her ;  and  she  has  already  sent  me  word  that  she  would  be 
very  willing  I  should  take  that  liberty.  The  king  and  queen  of  Po- 
land (for  here  we  no  more  recognize  King  Augustus)  have  sent  to 
ask  me  for  the  poem  of  Henry  IV.,  which  the  queen  has  already 
heard  spoken  of  with  eulogium.     But  nothing  must  be  pressed." 

[To  Madame  de  Bernieres,  October  8th.]  "  I  have  not  a  moment 
to  myself.  We  have  had  to  perform  '  Qi^dipe,'  '  Mariamne,'  and 
'  LTudiscret.'  I  have  been  some  time  at  Belebat  with  Madame  de 
Prie.  Besides  that,  I  have  been  almost  always  in  agitation,  cursing 
the  life  of  a  courtier,  vainly  chasing  a  little  good  fortune  which 
seemed  to  present  itself  to  me,  and  which  fled  as  soon  as  I  thought 
I  had  it ;  in  ill  humor,  and  not  daring  to  show  it ;  seeing  many  ridic- 
ulous things,  and  not  daring  to  speak  of  them  ;  not  ill  with  the  queen  ; 
much  in  favor  with  Madame  de  Prie,  —  and  all  that  doing  nothing 
for  me,  except  making  me  lose  my  time  and  keeping  me  from  you. 
....  Oh,  madame,  I  am  not  in  my  element  here.  Have  pity  upon 
a  poor  man  who  has  abandoned  his  country  for  a  foreign  land. 
Insensate  that  I  am  !  In  two  days  I  set  out  to  see  King  Stanislas  ; 
for  there  is  no  folly  of  which  I  am  incapable." 

[To  Thieriot,  October  17th.]  "I  have  had  the  folly  to  abandon 
my  talents  and  my  friends  for  the  illusions  of  the  court,  for  expecta- 
tions purely  imaginary.  ...  I  have  been  very  well  received  here  by 
the  queen.  She  has  shed  tears  at  the  performance  of  '  Mariamne,' 
and  she  has  laughed  at  '  LTndiscret.'  She  speaks  to  me  frequently  ; 
she  calls  me  'My  poor  Voltaire.'  A  fool  would  be  content  with  all 
that;  but  unfortunately  I  have  sense  enough  to  feel  that  praise  is  of 
small  account,  that  the  rule  of  a  poet  at  court  has  always  something  iiL 
it  a  little  ridiculous,  and  that  it  is  not  permitted  to  any  one  lo_be_in 
this  country  of  ours  without  some  kind  of  status.  Every  day  they 
give  me  hopes,  which  yield  me  little  nourishment.  You  would  hardly 
believe,  my  dear  Thieriot,  how  tired  I  am  of  my  court  life.  Henry 
IV.  is  very  foolishly  sacrificed  to  the  court  of  Louis  XV.  I  mourn 
the  moments  which  I  take  away  from  him.  yThe  poor  child^lready 
ought  to  have  appeared  in  quarto,  on  fine  paper,  with  a  fair  margin 
and  handsome  type.     That  will  surely  be  done  this  winter,  whatever 

happens.     Epic  poetry  is  my  forte,  or  I  am  much  deceived 

All  the  poets  in  the  world,  I  believe,  have  come  together  at  Fontaine- 
bleau.  The  queen  is  every  day  assassinated  with  Pindaric  odes, 
sonnets,  epistles,  and  marriage  songs.  I  imagine  she  takes  the  poets 
for  the  court  fools ;  and  if  so  she  is  very  right,  for  it  is  a  great  folly 
for  a  man  of  letters  to  be  here,  where  he  neither  gives  nor  receives 
pleasure." 


VOLTAIRE  A  COURTIER.  183 

But  at  length,  November  13tli,  he  wrote  in  a  more  cheerful 
strain,  and  had  an  item  of  good  news  to  communicate  to  liis 
friends  :  "  The  queen  has  just  given  me  from  her  privy  purse 
a  pension  of  fifteen  hundred  livres,  which  I  did  not  solicit. 
This  is  a  first  step  toward  obtaining  the  things  which  I  do 
ask.  I  am  in  good  credit  with  the  second  prime  minister, 
M.  Paris-Duverney.  I  count  upon  the  friendship  of  Madame 
de  Prie.  I  begin  to  have  a  reasonable  hope  of  being  able 
sometimes  to  be  useful  to  my  friends." 

He  was  now  past  thirty  years  of  age.  He  had  published  a 
poem  which  the  intelligent  mind  of  his  country  had  sealed 
with  its  warm  approval.  He  had  written  three  tragedies, 
two  of  which  had  succeeded  upon  the  stage,  had  been  read 
all  over  Europe  with  pleasure,  and  remain  at  this  day  part 
of  the  classic  literature  of  his  country.  He  had  composed  a 
hundred  agreeable  poems  :  some  a  little  free,  as  the  manner 
of  that  age  was,  many  of  them  both  pleasing  and  meritorious. 
He  had  written  a  graceful  comedy,  which,  trifling  as  it  was, 
had  given  innocent  pleasure  to  more  persons  than  one  of 
the  grand  seigneurs  of  the  period  could  rationally  expect  to 
please  in  a  life-time  of  fourscore  years.  He  had  within 
him  undeveloped  capacities  from  which  good  works  were  to 
be  hoped.  All  these  things  he  had  done  ;  all  this  and  more 
he  was,  in  December,  1725,  when  he  returned  from  court  to 
Paris  with  his  little  pension  in  his  pocket,  and  hope  in  his 
heart  of  greater  things  to  follow.  Besides  his  personal  merits 
and  his  solid  claims,  he  possessed  artificial  advantages,  such 
as  the  favor  of  the  queen,  of  her  father,  of  the  prime  minis- 
ter's mistress  and  secretary,  as  well  as  a  wide  acquaintance} 
with  the  grandees  of  the  kingdom.  What  was  he,  then?*v  .^ — 
What  human  rights  had  he  in  his  native  land  ?  Was  he  anvil  ■ 
at  thirty,  or  was  he  hammer  ?  If,  on  this  subject,  he  had  cher- 
ished any  vainglorious  doubts,  he  was  now  to  be  rudely  and 
finally  undeceived.  He  was  to  discover  that  he  was  nobody  : 
in  France  ;  or,  as  Alexis  Piron  expressed  it,  "  nothing,  not 
even  an  Academician." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

m  THE  BASTILLE  AGAIN. 

i;  :.  At  the  opera  in  Paris,  one  evening  in  December,  1725, 
Voltaire  was  conversing  with  acquaintances  in  the  lobby 
between  the  acts  ;  perhaps  "  laying  down  the  law  "  with  some 
positiveness,  as  was  his  right.  Who  should  lay  down  the  law 
of  the  drama  if  not  he  ?  Among  the  by-standers  was  the 
Chevalier  de  Rohan,  a  member  of  historic  families  whicli 
had  given  to  France  cardinals,  generals,  dukes,  princes,  and 
ministers  in  every  century  since  the  kingdom  was  consoli- 
dated. A  Cardinal  de  Rohan  was  a  personage  of  weight  and 
splendor  at  that  time,  predecessor  of  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan 
who  figured  sixty  years  later  in  the  affair  of  the  diamond 
necklace.  This  chevalier,  forty-three  years  of  age,  a  dissolute 
man-about-town,  broke  into  the  conversation  in  an  insolent  tone, 
saying,  — 

"  Monsieur  de  Voltaire,  Monsieur  Arouet,  what  is  your 
name  ?  " 
(^  The  answer  which  the  poet  made  on  this  occasion  is  not 
^  recorded,  nor  whether  he  made  any.  Two  days  after,  he  was 
at  the  theatre,  and  there  again  he  met  the  Chevalier  de  Ro- 
han, —  either  in  the  warming-room  Qe  chauffoir)  or  in  the 
box  of  the  actress  Madame  Lecouvreur,  who  was  present. 
The  chevalier  repeated  the  offensive  question,  when  Voltaire 
replied, — 

"  I  do  not  trail  after  me  a  great  name,  but  I  know  how  to 
honor  the  name  I  bear." 

Another  version  is,  "  I  begin  my  name ;  the  Chevalier  de 
Rohan  finishes  his." 

Rohan  raised  his  cane  as  if  to  strike ;  Voltaire  placed 
his  hand  upon  his  sword  ;  the  actress  fainted ;  and  thus  the 
scene  was  brought  to  an  end,  Voltaire  the  victor.  Two  or 
three  days  after,  the  poet  was  dining  with  his  old  patron  and 


IN  THE  BASTILLE  AGAIN.  185 

protector,  the  Duke  of    Sully,    when  a  servant  came  to   his      ^ / 

chair,  and  informed  him  that  some  one  wished  to   speak  to         o  / 
him  at  the  door  of  the  mansion.     The  Hotel  de  Sully,  where  ^- 

these  events  occurred  still  stands,  and  bears  the  number  143 
Rue  Saint-Antoine.  Upon  reaching  the  street,  he  saw  two 
hackney-coaches  standing  near.  Two  men  came  up  to  him, 
and  asked  him  to  stand  upon  the  steps  of  the  nearest  carriage, 
which  he  was  proceeding  to  do,  supposing  that  the  person  who 
desired  to  speak  to  him  was  in  that  vehicle.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  his  foot  touched  the  step,  he  was  seized  by  the 
coat,  and  a  shower  of  blows  fell  upon  his  shoulders.  A  voice 
from  the  other  coach  was  heard,  crying  out, — 

"  Don't  hit  him  upon  the  head!  Something  good  may  come 
out  of  that." 

Voltaire  recognized  the  voice  as  that  of  the  Chevalier  de 
Rohan,  whom  he  saw  sitting  in  the  coach,  watching  and  di- 
recting the  proceedings.  Indeed,  the  brave  knight,  m  relating 
the  exploit  to  his  intimates,  would  say,  "  I  was  in  command 
of  the  laborers  "  Qe8  travailleurs),  using  the  military  term  for 
the  men  detailed  to  throw  up  intrenchments.  Voltaire  at 
length  tore  himself  from  the  clutch  of  the  hired  ruffians,  and 
made  his  way  back  to  the  dining-room,  where  he  related 
what  had  occurred.  He  asked  the  Duke  of  Sully  to  make 
common  cause  with  him  in  obtaining  legal  redress  for  an  out- 
rage done  upon  his  guest,  at  his  own  door,  and  therefore  an 
affront  to  the  master  of  the  house.  He  besought  the  duke, 
at  least,  to  go  with  him  to  a  commissary  of  police,  and  de-  ^ 
pose  to  the  facts  within  his  knowledge.  Rohan  was  cousin 
to  the  duke,  and  it  now  appeared  that  the  Duke  of  Sully 
was  neither  aristocrat  enough  nor  man  enough  to  seize  this 
chance  of  honoring  his  order  and  himself.  He  refused  to 
stand  by  his  guest.  Voltaire  rushed  from  the  hotel,  never 
again  to  enter  an  abode  where,  for  nearly  ten  years,  he  had 
been  on  the  footing  almost  of  a  younger  brother. 

He  hurried  away  to  the  opera,  where  he  found  Madame  de 
Prie,  the  mistress  of  the  Duke  of  Bourbon,  not  yet  deposed 
from  the  ministry,  though  soon  to  be.  To  her  he  related  the 
unspeakable  wrong  he  had  suffered.  She  sympathized  with 
him,  took  his  part  with  the  minister,  and,  for  a  few  days,  they 
hoped  the  Duke  of  Bourbon  would  do  him  some  kind  of  jus- 


186  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

tice.  But,  it  seems,  a  friend  of  the  Rohans  neutralized  the 
influence  of  the  mistress  by  showing  the  one-eyed  duke  an 
epigram,  addressed  to  INIadame  de  Prie,  and  falsely  attributed 
to  Voltaire,  which  ran  thus:  "lo,  without  seeming  to  feign, 
knew  how  to  deceive  all  the  hundred  eyes  of  Argus.  We 
have  only  one  eye  to  fear ;  why  not  be  happy  ?  "  Nor  was 
the  minister  so  firm  in  his  seat  at  that  moment  that  he  could 
safely  offend  so  powerful  a  family  as  the  Rohans.  It  was  soon 
manifest  that  the  injured  man  had  nothing  to  expect  from  the 
court,  and  if  ever  his  wrong  was  avenged  it  must  be  by  his 
own  hand  or  arm.  Meanw^hile,  the  secret  police  received 
orders  to  keep  an  eye  upon  both  knight  and  poet,  and  to  take 
measures  for  preventing  a  renewal  of  strife  between  them. 
The  language  of  these  orders  shows  what  the  great  world 
thought  of  the  affair. 

The  lieutenant  of  police  to  the  commissary  of  detectives, 
March  23,  1726  :  "  Sir,  His  Royal  Highness  is  informed  that 
Monsieur  the  Chevalier  de  Rohan  sets  out  this  day ;  and,  as 
he  may  have  some  new  procedure  \^procSde^  with  the  Sieur 
de  Voltaire,  or  the  latter  commit  some  madcap  act  (^coup 
d'etourdi),  he  desires  you  to  have  them  observed  in  such  a 
way  that  nothing  of  the  kind  may  happen."  ^ 

The  lieutenant  of  police  uses  the  polite  word  procede  when 
anticipating  the  conduct  of  a  Rohan,  and  the  contemptuous 
phrase  coup  d^etourdi  when  describing  the  probable  behavior 
of  Voltaire.  He  was  not  far  wrong.  For  a  private  person 
without  powerful  protection  to  attempt,  in  1726,  to  get  justice 
against  an  adversary  closely  allied  to  princes  in  church  and 
state  was  indeed  the  act  of  an  etourdi.  This  valiant  chev- 
alier never  received  the  slightest  reprimand  for  his  conduct 
in  this  affair,  nor  was  his  promotion  in  the  arm}'-  retarded 
by  it.  At  this  time  he  held  a  rank  equivalent  to  brigadier- 
general,  and,  within  ten  years,  without  having  performed  or 
witnessed  any  warlike  exploit  but  this  battle  with  a  poet,  he 
rose  to  the  rank  of  lieutenant-general.  Nor  is  there  reason  to 
think  that  the  outrage  excited  indignation  in  the  public  mind. 
Epigi'ams  and  other  versified  satire  then  played  the  part  which 
scurrilous  newspapers  have  since  occasionally  filled  in  our  large 
cities.  We  do  not  at  present  get  into  a  passion  of  noble  wrath 
^  Jeunesse  de  Voltaire,  page  353. 


IN  THE  BASTILE   AGAIN.  187 

when  the  irrepressible  editor  of  such  a  newspaper  is  assailed 
either  in  his  pocket  or  in  his  person.  Voltaire,  in  all  his  lit- 
erary career  of  sixty  years,  rarely  wrote  ill-natured  verse,  and 
never  except  under  strong  provocation  ;  but,  unfortunately, 
he  had  the  credit  of  half  the  stinging  satire  that  circulated  in 
his  early  time.  "  We  should  be  unhappy,  indeed,"  said  the 
Bishop  of  Blois,  when  he  heard  of  this  affair,  "  if  poets  had 
no  shoulders."  There  is  a  lurking  baseness  in  many  minds 
which  compels  them  to  side  always  with  the  man  who  is  at 
the  comfortable  end  of  the  stick.  Six  weeks  after  the  out- 
rage, Advocate  Marais  wrote  to  a  correspondent :  — 

"  I  send  you  a  piece  of  verse  all  fresh  against  M.  de  Fon- 
tenelle.  It  is  very  malign,  —  worse  than  blows  with  a  cane. 
Those  of  Voltaire  are  spoken  of  no  more.  He  keeps  them. 
People  remember  the  reply  of  the  late  Duke  of  Orleans  when 
Voltaire  asked  for  justice  on  a  similar  occasion :  '■You  have  had 
it.''  ....  The  poor  Beaten  shows  himself  as  often  as  he  can 
at  court,  in  the  city  ;  but  no  one  pities  him,  and  those  whom 
he  thought  to  be  his  friends  have  turned  their  backs  upon  him. 
The  rumor  runs  that  the  poet  Roy  has  also  had  his  basting 
(hastonnade)  for  an  epigram.  And  so,  at  last,  behold  our 
poets,  through  fear  of  the  stick,  reduced  to  their  legitimate 
work  of  learning  and  pleasing."  ^  ^ 

Thus  the  commonplace  man  interprets  an  affair  of  this  nat- 
ure ;  and,  doubtless,  all  that  was  ordinary  and  all  that  was 
mean  in  the  idle  Paris  of  that  day  commented  so  upon  the 
enormous,  the  inexpiable  wrong  done  upon  the  man  destined 
to  give  his  name  to  his  era.  Doubtless,  too,  the  gift  of  witty 
utterance  was  abused,  and  epigrams  themselves  sometimes 
needed  "  tempering."  "  What  is  the  common  price  of  an 
oak  stick,  sir?"  said  Dr.  Johnson  to  Davies.  "Sixpence." 
"  Why,  then,  sir,  give  me  leave  to  send  your  servant  for  a  shil- 
ling one.  I  'II  have  a  double  quantity,  for  I  am  told  Foote 
means  to  take  me  off,  as  he  calls  it,  and  I  am  determined  he 
shall  not  do  it  with  impunity."  Foote  was  notified,  and  for- 
bore to  take  off  Dr.  Johnson. 

Paris  was  very  familiar  at  that  time  with  the  appeal  to  the      ip 
stick  in  disputes  between  the  owners  and  the  movers  of  the 
world.     Marais  alludes  to  the  poet  Roy's  mishap.     The  Count 

1  3  Marais,  393. 


188  LIFE  or  VOLTAIRE. 

de  Clermont  having  been  elected  one  of  the  forty  members  of 

^;    the  French  Academy,  Roy  had  taken   the  liberty  of  saying 

that  thirty-nine  plus  zero  had  never  yet  made  forty.     This 

<  harmless  joke  subjected  him  to  blows.     The  illustrious  Mo- 

<  Here,  after  the  production  of  his  Misanthrope,  passed  several 
days  in  expectation  of  similar  treatment  from  a  person  sup- 
posed to  have  been  represented  in  the  play.  He  knew  well 
that  he  had  no  protection,  and  could  obtain  no  redress,  from 
the  law.  Moncrif,  for  some  jests  in  his  "  History  of  Cats,"  was 
assailed  by  blows  in  the  streets.  Advocate  Barbier  relates  an 
incident  of  1721,  to  this  effect:  The  Duke  de  Meilleraie,  a  fool 
and  an  etourdi,  while  driving  his  phaeton  over  one  of  the  nar- 
row bridges  of  Paris,  was  in  danger  of  running  down  a  horse 
carrying  in  a  panzer  several  little  children.  A  priest  who 
was  passing  remonstrated  ;  whereupon  the  duke  sprang  to  the 
ground  and  "  gave  him  twenty  strokes  with  his  whip."  The 
priest,  through  his  superior,  complained.  The  Prince  de  Ro- 
han, the  duke's  father-in-law,  tried  to  pacify  him  ;  but  he  de- 
manded reparation,  and,  being  a  priest,  obtained  it.  The  of- 
fending nobleman  was  obliged  to  apologize  in  the  presence  of 
all  the  priests  of  the  convent,  to  settle  upon  the  injured  man 
an  annuit}^  of  two  hundred  francs,  and  to  pass  a  year  in  the 
chateau  of  Vincennes.  No  man  of  letters,  unconnected  with 
the  privileged  orders,  could  have  had  such  redress.  So  many 
men  of  letters  were  subjected  to  outrage  of  this  nature  in  that 
age  that  the  records  have  furnished  M.  Victor  Fournel  with 
the  material  for  a  volume  upon  the  "  R61e  of  the  Stick  in  Lit- 
erary History."  Literature  had  to  make  its  way  in  France 
between  the  cudgel  and  the  Bastille,  after  it  had  outUved  the 
period  of  the  wheel  and  the  fagot. 

In  such  a  time,  in  such  a  country,  what  ought  Voltaire  to 
r*  have  done  ?  He  must  have  read  the  song  circulated  in  March, 
1726,  in  which  he  was  said  to  have  been  brevetted  batonnier, 
staff-bearer  to  his  regiment.  He  probably  heard  of  the  verb 
newly  added  to  the  French  language,  voUairiser,  to  voltaire^ 
to  heat.  What  should  he  have  done?  I  cannot  answer  the 
question.  To  have  submitted  in  silence  to  such  an  infamy  he 
must  have  been  either  more  or  less  than  man.  He  was 
neither.  To  have  taken  "  wild  justice,"  as  Lord  Bacon  ex- 
presses it,  by  putting  to  death  the  poor  creature  who  had 


1 


IN  THE  BASTILLE  AGAIN.  189 

wronged  him,  would  have  involved  the  spoiling,  if  not  the  loss, 
of  his  own  life.  He  could  have  taken  a  frightful  vengeance 
by  his  pen,  as  he  often  did  when  the  injury  was  less ;  but  on 
this  occasion  he  felt  the  outrage  too  keenly  to  give  his  feelings 
effective  expression.  Effective  expression  is  art,  and  the  artist 
must  have  a  tranquil  mind.  Othello  was  the  man  in  the 
world  who  was  farthest  from  being  able  either  to  write  or  to 
play  the  Moor  of  Venice.  As  to  the  courts  of  justice,  had  he 
not  tried  them  in  the  case  of  Captain  Beauregard,  and  in- 
volved himself  in  endless  expense  and  trouble,  only  to  remain 
in  the  thoughtless  mind  "  the  man  who  had  got  himself 
caned  "  ?  ^ 

He  resolved  to  challenge  Rohan  to  mortal  combat  with  the  <<; 

sword,  a  weapon  which  he  had  worn  for  many  years,  and 
knew  how  to  use  about  as  well  as  a  poet  of  the  present  time 
knows  how  to  box.  The  equalizing  pistol  was  not  then  em- 
ployed on  "the  field  of  honor."  He  now  abstained  from  his 
usual  haunts,  took  lessons  in  fencing,  and  sought  the  advice  of 
men  learned  in  the  art  of  polite  combat,  not  suspecting  that 
he  was  under  surveillance  of  the  police.  He  was  determined 
not  to  throw  away  his  life  by  going  to  the  field  too  soon,  and, 
accordingly,  he  spent  nearly  four  months  in  acquiring  skill  X 
with  his  weapon. 

April  16,  1726,  the  lieutenant  of  police  sent  important  in- 
formation to  his  chief :  — 

"  The  Sieur  de  Voltaire  intends  to  insult  the  Chevalier  de  Rohan 
immediately,  and  with  eclat.  Several  times  during  the  last  six  weeks  '"^ 
he  has  changed  both  his  residence  and  his  quarter.  We  have  informa- 
tion that  he  is  now  at  the  house  of  one  Leynault,  a  fencing-master, 
Rue  St.  Martin,  where  he  lives  in  very  bad  company.  It  is  said  that 
he  is  in  relations  with  some  soldiers  of  the  guards,  and  that  several  bul- 
lies [hretteurs]  frequent  his  lodgings.  Whatever  truth  there  may  be  in 
these  last  reports,  it  is  certain  that  he  has  very  bad  designs,  and  it  is 
su^e  also  that  he  has  had  one  of  his  relations  [Daumart]  come  from 
the  country,  who  is  to  accompany  him  in  the  combat.  This  relation 
is  a  more  moderate  man  than  M.  de  Voltaire,  and  desires  to  calm  him, 
but  it  is  impossible.  He  is  more  irritated  and  more  furious  than  ever 
in  his  conduct  and  in  his  conversation.  All  this  intelligence  deter- 
mines the  lieutenant  to  put  the  king's  orders  into  execution,  if  possible, 
this  very  night,  judging  it  to  be  his  duty  to  prevent  the  disorder  of 
which  he  has  been  distinctly  notified." 


190  LIEE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

That  evening,  or  the  next,  Voltaire  and  Thieriot  were  at 
L-  the  Theatre  Fran^ais,  and  observed  that  the  Chevalier  de  Ro- 

han was,  as  usual,  in  the  box  of  Madame  Lecouvreur.  During 
the  evening,  they  went  to  the  door  of  the  box,  which  Voltaire 
o~"^  entered,  leaving  Thieriot  outside,  within  hearing.  As  Thieriot 
used  to  tell  the  story  in  old  age,  Voltaire  addressed  Rohan 
thus : — 

"  Monsieur,  if  some  affair  of  interest  has  not  made  you  for- 
get the  outrage  of  which  I  have  to  complain,  I  hope  that  you 
will  give  me  satisfaction  for  it/' 

The  chevalier  accepted  the  challenge,  naming  time  and 
place,  —  St.  Martin's  Gate,  the  next  morning  at  nine.  But 
the  next  morning  at  nine  Voltaire  was  in  the  Bastille.  He 
was  arrested,  as  it  appears,  after  the  scene  in  the  box,  either 
near  the  theatre  or  at  his  lodgings.  It  is  certain  that  he 
^-?^  1-  awoke  on  the  morning  of  April  18,  1726,  within  the  chateau 
of  the  Bastille,  a  guest  of  the  king,  and  so  missed  his  appoint- 
ment. He  was  provided,  according  to  the  ofl&cial  report,  with 
pocket  pistols  at  the  time  of  his  arrest ;  evidently  an  etourdi 
of  desperate  character.  Two  respectable  families  were  relieved 
by  the  lettre  de  cachet  which  deprived  Voltaire  of  his  weapons 
and  his  liberty,  the  Rohans  and  the  Arouets.  The  lieuten- 
ant of  police  remarked,  in  his  report  of  the  arrest,  that  "  the 
family  of  the  prisoner  applauded  unanimously  and  universally 
the  wisdom  of  an  order  which  kept  the  young  man  from  com- 
mitting some  new  folly,  and  the  worthy  persons  of  whom  that 
family  was  composed  from  the  mortification  of  sharing  the 
confusion  of  it." 

Considering  all  the  circumstances,  the  arrest  was,  perhaps, 
the  kindest  thing  such  a  government  could  have  done,  and  it 
probably  gratified  every  person  who  really  wished  well  to  the 
prisoner.  The  measure,  among  other  effects,  brought  about 
a  reaction  of  public  feeling  in  his  favor.  The  veteran  sol- 
dier, the  Duke  of  Villars,  so  often  in  later  years  the  host  and 
familiar  correspondent  of  Voltaire,  records  in  his  Memoires 
that  the  public  now  censured,  and,  as  he  thought,  justly  cen- 
sured, all  parties  :  Voltaire,  for  having  offended  the  Chevalier 
de  Rohan ;  the  chevalier,  for  having  committed  a  crime  wor- 
thy of  death,  in  causing  a  citizen  to  be  beaten ;  the  govern- 
ment, for  not  punishing   a   notoriously  bad  action,  and  for 


IN  THE  BASTILLE   AGAIN.  191 

having  the  beaten  man  put  into  the  Bastille  to  tranquilize  the 
beater."  ^ 

This  was  probably  the  general  feeling  at  the  moment.  The 
chevalier  was  evidently  held  in  odium,  and  the  belief  was  gen-  r 
eral,  though  mistaken,  that  Voltaire  had  been  arrested  at  the 
solicitation  of  the  Rohans,  who  gave  out  that  the  chevalier, 
being  lame  from  a  fall,  was  not  in  lighting  trim.  A  report  was 
also  circulated  that  the  poet,  in  the  violence  of  his  rage,  had 
gone  to  Versailles  and  asked  for  the  chevalier  at  the  very  door 
of  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan's  august  abode  !  The  captive,  upon 
being  established  once  more  at  the  grim  chateau,  wrote  to  the 
minister  in  charge  of  the  Department  of  Paris  a  spirited  and  ^ci. 

notunbecoming  note  :  — 

"  The  Sieur  de  Voltaire  very  humbly  represents  that  he  was 
assaulted  by  the  brave  Chevalier  de  Rohan,  assisted  by  six 
hamstringers,  behind  whom  he  was  boldly  posted  ;  that  ever 
since  he  has  constantly  sought  to  repair,  not  his  own  honor, 
but  that  of  the  chevalier,  which  has  proved  too  difficult.  If 
he  went  to  Versailles,  it  is  most  untrue  that  it  was  for  the  pur- 
pose of  asking  for  the  Chevalier  de  Rohan  at  the  house  of  the 
Cardinal  de  Rohan.  It  is  very  easy  for  the  Sieur  de  Voltaire 
to  prove  the  contrary,  and  he  consents  to  remain  in  the  Bas- 
tille the  rest  of  his  life,  if  he  deceives  on  this  point.  He  asks 
permission  to  take  his  meals  at  the  table  of  the  governor  of 
the  Bastille,  and  to  be  allowed  to  receive  visitors.  With  still 
more  earnestness  he  requests  permission  to  go  at  once  to  Eng- 
land. If  there  is  any  doubt  of  his  desire  to  depart  thither,  an 
officer  can  go  with  him  as  far  as  Calais."  ^ 

The  minister  was  complaisant.  An  order  was  at  once  sent 
to  the  Bastille,  in  the  king's  name,  to  the  effect  that  the  pris- 
oner should  have  every  liberty  and  privilege  consistent  with 
his  safe-keeping.  He  dined  at  the  governor's  table,  with  other 
favored  guests  of  the  king.  His  friends,  roused  by  his  cap- 
tivity, flocked  in  to  see  him  in  such  numbers  that  the  minis- 
ter was  alarmed,  and  sent  a  new  order,  limitincr  his  visitors  to 
six,  to  be  designated  by  the  prisoner.  Thieriot  dined  with 
him  almost  every  day,  and  brought  him  English  books,  which 
he  studied  diligently.  An  old  clerk  of  his  father  was  much 
with  him,  arranging  affairs  of  business.     Madame  de  Berni- 

1  23  Memoires.  323. 


192  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

dres   and  other  ladies  of  liis  circle  shone  in   upon   him,  now 

(  and  then.      Among  the  prisoners,  also,    were  agreeable  per- 

H.  ^         \  sons,  male  and  female.    And  so  the  days  passed  in  business,  in 

,^r         \conversation,  in  eager  study  of   the  English    language  ;    not 

'c  without  occasional  passionate  outbursts  against  the  injustice 

,  of  which  he  was  a  victim.     He  asked  the  lieutenant  of  police, 

one  day,  — 

"  What  is  done  with  people  who  forge  lettres  de  cachet^'' 

"  They  arc  hanged,"  was  the  reply. 

"  It  is  always  well  done,"  said  Voltaire,  "  in  anticipation  of 
the  time  when  those  who  sign  genuine  ones  shall  be  served 
in  the  same  way."  ^ 

His  captivity  on  this  occasion  lasted  fifteen  days.  Arrested 
April  17th,  he  was  released  May  2d,  on  condition  of  binding 
himself  to  go  at  once  to  England.  But  the  minister  did  not 
rely  upon  his  promise  ;  for  Conde,  the  chief  turnkey  of  the 
Bastille,  was  ordered  "  to  accompany  him  as  far  as  Calais,  and 
to  see  him  embark  and  set  sail  from  that  port."  The  prisoner 
sent  this  news  to  jNIadame  de  Bernieres,  and  asked  her  to  lend 
him  her  traveling  carriage  for  the  journey,  and  to  come  at 
once  to  see  him,  for  the  last  time,  with  Madame  du  Deffand 
and  Thieriot.  "To-morrow,  Wednesday,"  he  wrote  to  her,  "all 
who  wish  to  see  me  can  enter  freely.  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
shall  have  the  opportunity  of  assuring  you  once  more  in  my 
life  of  my  true  and  respectful  attachment."  May  3d  he  en- 
tered the  chaise  at  the  Bastille  gate,  with  Conde,  and  was 
driven,  in  two  days,  to  Calais,  where  good  friends  entertained 
him  four  days,  while  he  was  waiting  for  the  sailing  of  the 
packet.  He  embarked,  at  length,  and  saw  his  native  land  re- 
cede from  view. 

His  powerful  friends  at  Paris  did  not  forget  him.  Some 
weeks  after  his  departure  from  the  Bastille,  the  Count  de 
Morville,  minister  for  foreign  affairs,  who  had  been  much  his 
'  friend  for  several  years,  interposed  in  his  behalf.  The  Wal- 
poles  were  then  supreme  in  England :  Sir  Robert  being  prime 
minister,  his  eldest  son  a  new  peer,  his  brother  Horace  am- 
bassador at  the  French  court,  and  as  noted  in  the  diplomacy 
of  that  generation  as  his  nephew  and  namesake  of  Straw- 
berry  Hill  was  in  the  society  of   the  next.      "  Old  Horace 

1  4  CEuvres  dc  Voltaire,  122. 


M 


IN  THE  BASTILLE  AGAIN.  193 

Walpole,"  at  the  instance  of  Count  de  Morville,  wrote,  May 
29,  1726,  a  letter,  commending  the  exile  to  Bubb  Doding- 
ton,  a  gentlemen  of  great  estate,  fond  of  gathering  men  of 
letters  under  his  roof :  — 

"  Dear  Sir,  —  Mr.  Voltaire,  a  French  poet,  who  has  wrote  sev- 
eral pieces  with  great  success  here,  being  gone  for  England  in  order 
to  print  by  subscription  an  excellent  poem,  called  Henry  IV.,  which, 
on  account  of  some  bold  strokes  in  it  against  persecution  and  the 
priests,  cannot  be  printed  here  ;  M.  de  Morville,  the  Maecenas,  or,  I 
may  truly  say,  the  Dodington  here,  for  the  encouragement  of  wit  and 
learning,  has  earnestly  recommended  it  to  me  to  use  my  credit  and  in- 
terest for  promoting  this  subscription  among  my  friends ;  on  which 
account,  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  merit,  I  thought  I  could  apply  my- 
self nowhere  more  properly  than  to  you  ;  and  I  hope  this  will  an- 
swer the  particular  view  and  interest  which  I  have  in  it  myself,  which 
is  to  renew  a  correspondence  so  agreeable  to  me ;  who  am,  with  the 
greatest  truth  and  affection,  sir,  your  most  obedient  and  most  humble 
servant,  H.  Walpole." 

There  were  circumstances  in  the  politics  of  the  moment 
which  made  the  Walpoles  particularly  desirous  of  obliging 
Count  de  Morville.  This  letter  therefore  opened  to  the  poet 
the  great  whig  houses  of  the  kingdom,  while  his  acquaintance 
with  Bolingbroke  gave  him  favorable  access  to  tory  circles. 
He  knew,  as  yet,  very  little  English ;  but  at  that  time,  George 
I.  being  King  of  England,  French  was  the  language  of  the 
court,  and  during  a  part  of  every  season  a  company  of 
French  comedians  performed  in  London,  —  "  the  French  ver- 
min," Aaron  Hill  called  them  in  1721. 

Voltaire  was  going  to  a  very  foreign  land,  farther  then  from  / 
France  than  Australia  is  now  from  the  United  States  ;  a  land  | 
less  known  to  Frenchmen  of  that  day  than  any  land  on  earth 
now  is  to  us.  It  was  the  time,  too,  when  French  and  English 
accepted  the  theory  that,  being  neighbors,  only  twenty-one 
miles  apart,  and  having  more  reasons  to  be  friends  than  any 
other  two  nations  on  the  globe,  they  were  "  natural  enemies." 
At  least,  such  was  the  conviction  of  the  average  English  mind. 
"  We  can  do  without  the  English  coming  among  us,"  wrote 
Advocate  Marais,  in  1725,  "  for  they  do  not  love  us,  and  are 
very  haughty  with  us,  notwithstanding  our  politeness  and  our 
civility."     Happily,  the  educated  classes  of  every  land  have 

VOL.    I.  13 


194  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

many  dear  interests  in  common,  and  some  of  them  get  above 
the  grosser  provincial  prejudices.  J.  B.  Rousseau  had  been  in 
England  in  1721,  and  found  there  subscribers  enough  to  a 
quarto  edition  of  his  poems  to  put  into  his  pocket  a  profit  of 
five  hundred  pounds  sterling. ^ 

Voltaire,  as  his  letters  show,  carried  with  him  across  the 
channel  a  heart  filled  wnth  bitterness  and  rage.  The  indig- 
nity he  had  received  was  one  of  those  which  even  common- 
place men  bear  with  equanimity  only  when  they  are  suffered 
by  others.  He  could  not  get  over  it.  The  wrong  was  too 
recent,  and  it  came  upon  him  with  the  force  of  accumulation  ; 
for  this  was  the  second  time  that  he  had  been  obliged  to  en- 
dure it.  Satiric  poets  of  the  day  insisted  that  it  was  the  third 
time,  and  they  did  not  neglect  to  repeat  the  statement  when- 
ever opportunity  invited.  Could  he  ever  live  in  France  on  the 
principle  that,  as  often  as  he  suffered  gross  indignity,  it  was  to 
be  himself  who  should  receive  the  stigma  of  public  punish- 
ment, while  the  man  who  had  committed  the  outrage  showed 
himself  nightly,  in  agreeable  and  distinguished  boxes  at  the 
theatre,  complacent  and  boastful  ?  Could  he  ever  frequent 
the  haunts  of  men,  bearing  upon  his  person  a  label,  legible  to 
every  passer-by,  This  is  the  Man  who  may  be  Beaten  ! 

1  42  Nouvelle  Biographic  Generale,  734. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  ENGLAND. 

England  gave  the  exile  a  smiling  welcome.  The  ac- 
count which  he  afterwards  wi'ote  of  his  arrival  and  of  his 
first  impressions  of  the  country  must  not  be  taken  quite 
literally.  There  is  evidently  that  mingling  in  it  of  fact, 
fancy,  and  banter  which  he  was  often  obliged  to  employ  in 
treating  ticklish  subjects  in  the  land  of  the  Bastille,  and 
which  became  at  length  habitual  with  him.  Instead  of  land- 
ing at  Dover,  as  travelers  usually  did,  he  sailed,  as  it  ap- 
pears, up  the  Thames  as  far  as  Greenwich,  five  miles  below 
London,  and  there  he  first  set  foot  on  British  soil. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  days  of  May.  The  sky, 
he  records,  was  without  a  cloud,  and  a  soft  breeze  from  the 
west  tempered  the  sun's  heat,  and  disposed  all  hearts  to  joy. 
It  chanced  also  to  be  the  day  of  the  great  Greenwich  Fair, 
which  was  then  a  day  of  festivity  to  Londoners,  who  came 
in  crowds  to  witness  games,  races,  and  regattas.  The  river 
was  covered,  he  says,  with  two  rows  of  merchant-ships  for 
the  space  of  six  miles,  with  their  sails  all  spread  to  do  honor 
to  the  king  and  queen,  who  were  upon  the  river  in  a  gilded 
barge,  preceded  by  boats  with  bands  of  music,  and  followed 
by  a  tliousand  wherries,  each  rowed  by  two  men  in  breeches 
'  and  doublet,  with  large  silver  plates  upon  their  shoulders. 
"  Tliere  was  not  one  of  these  oarsmen,"  remarks  the  stranger, 
"  who  did  not  assure  me,  by  his  face,  his  dress,  and  his  excel- 
lent condition  [embonpoint]  that  he  was  a  freeman,  and  lived 
in  plenty." 

Near  the  river,  in  Greenwich  Park,  four  miles  in  circum- 
ference, he  observed  a  prodigious  number  of  well-formed 
young  people  on  horseback,  cantering  around  a  race-course 
marked  with  white  posts.  Among  them  were  women,  who 
galloped    up  and    down  with  much  grace.     But    he    was    es- 


196  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

pecially  pleased  with  the  girls  on  foot,  most  of  whom  were 
clad  in  Indian  stuffs.  Many  of  them  were  beautiful ;  all 
were  well  made ;  and  there  was  a  neatness  in  their  dress,  a 
vivacity  in  their  movements,  and  an  air  of  satisfaction  in 
their  faces  that  made  them  all  pleasing.  Roaming  about 
the  Park,  he  came  to  a  smaller  race-course,  not  more  than 
five  hundred  feet  long.  "  What  is  this  for  ?  "  he  asked. 
He  was  told  that  this  was  for  a  foot-race,  while  the  larger 
course  was  for  horses.  Near  one  of  the  posts  of  the  large  circle 
was  a  man  on  horseback  holding  in  his  hand  a  silver  pitcher, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  smaller  course  were  two  poles,  with  a 
large  hat  at  the  top  of  one,  and  a  chemise  floating  like  a  flag 
from  the  other.  Between  the  two  poles  stood  a  stout  man 
bearing  a  purse.  The  pitcher,  he  learned,  was  the  prize  for 
the  horse-race,  and  the  purse  for  the  foot-race.  But  what  of 
the  hat  and  the  chemise  ?  He  was  "  agreeably  surprised  "  to 
be  told  that  there  was  to  be  a  race  by  the  girls,  and  that 
the  winner  was  to  receive,  besides  the  purse,  the  chemise, 
"  as  a  mark  of  honor,"  while  the  winning  man  was  to  have 
the  hat. 

Continuing  his  rambles,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  fall 
in  with  some  English  merchants  to  whom  he  had  letters  of 
introduction.  These  gentlemen,  he  saj'S,  did  the  honors  of 
the  festival  with  the  eagerness  and  the  cordiality  of  men  who 
are  happy  themselves,  and  wish  to  make  others  sharers  in 
their  joy.  They  had  a  horse  brought  for  him  ;  they  sent  for 
refreshments ;  and  took  care  to  get  him  a  place  whence  he 
could  comfortably  view  the  races,  the  river,  and  vast  Lon- 
don in  the  distance.  At  first  he  thought  himself  transported 
to  the  Olympic  Games  ;  but  when  he  beheld  the  beauty  of 
the  Thames,  the  fleets  of  ships,  the  immensity  of  London, 
he  "blushed  to  have  compared  Greece  with  England."  Some 
one  told  him  that  at  that  very  moment  there  was  a  "  com- 
bat of  gladiators "  in  progress  at  London ;  and  then  he 
thouofht  he  was  with  the  ancient  Romans.  Near  him  on  the 
stand  was  a  Danish  courier,  who  had  only  arrived  that  morn- 
ing, and  was  to  set.  out  on  his  return  in  the  evening.  "  He 
appeared  to  me,"  says  Voltaire,  "  overcome  with  joy  and 
wonder.  He  believed  that  this  nation  was  always  gay,  that 
the  women  were  all  beautiful  and  animated,  that  the  sky  of 


FIRST   IMPRESSIONS   OF  ENGLAND.  197 

Encrland  was  always  clear  and  serene,  that  people  there 
thought  only  of  pleasure,  aiKl  that  every  day  in  the  year  was 
like  this.  He  went  away  without  being  undeceived.  For  my 
part,  I  was  more  enchanted  even  than  my  Dane." 

Such  were  his  first  hours  in  England.  Ben  Franklin  was  a 
journeyman  printer  in  London  then.  What  more  likely  than 
that  he  was  at  Greenwich  that  day  ?  He  may  have  brushed 
past  the  eager  Frenchman,  whom  he  was  to  meet  in  such  sin- 
gular circumstances  fifty-two  years  after.  He  may  have  been 
one  of  the  stout,  well-dressed,  fresh-complexioned  youths  whom 
Voltaire  admired  galloping  about  in  the  Park  ;  for  at  Green- 
wich Fair  many  young  fellows  rode  who  trudged  the  rest  of 
the  year  on  foot.  *=» 

Voltaire  was  not  long  in  learning  that  England  was  not  j 
always  clad  in  smiles.     He  was  in  London  the  same  evening,  i 
probably  at  the  house  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,  which  was  usually  ; 
the  place  of  his  abode  in  London,  and  to  which  his  letters  from 
France  w^ere  addressed. 

In  the  course  of  his  first  evening,  as  he  relates,  he  met 
some  ladies  of  fashion.  He  spoke  to  them  of  the  "  ravishing 
spectacle  "  which  he  had  witnessed  at  Greenwich,  not  doubt- 
ing that  they  also  had  witnessed  it,  and  had  formed  part  of  the 
gay  assemblage  of  ladies  galloping  round  the  course.  He  was 
a  little  surprised,  however,  to  observe  that  they  had  not  that 
air  of  vivacity  which  people  usually  exhibit  who  have  just 
returned  from  a  day's  pleasure.  On  the  contrary,  they  were 
constrained  and  reserved,  sipped  their  tea,  made  a  great  noise, 
with  their  fans,  talked  scandal,  played  cards,  or  read  the  news- 
paper. At  length,  one  of  these  fine  ladies,  "more  charitable 
than  the  rest,"  informed  the  puzzled  foreigner  that  people 
of  fashion  never  abased  themselves  so  far  as  to  attend  mis- 
cellaneous gatherings  like  the  one  which  had  given  him  so 
much  delight ;  that  all  those  pretty  girls,  clad  in  the  fabrics 
of  India,  were  only  servants  and  vilUigers ;  that  those  hand- 
some young  men,  so  well  mounted,  and  cantering  so  gayly 
in  the  Park,  were  nothing  but  scholars  and  apprentices  on 
hired  horses.  These  unexpected  statements  he  could  not  be- 
lieve, and  he  felt  himself  moved  to  anger  against  the  lady 
who  made  them. 

Bent  on  pursuing    his  investigations  into  the  character  of 


198  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

this  strange  people,  he  went,  the  next  day,  into  the  city,  to 
find  the  merchants  and  aldermen  who  had  been  so  cordial  to 
him  at  his  "supposed  Olympic  Games."  In  a  coffee-house, 
which  was  dirty,  ill  furnished,  badly  served,  and  dimly  lighted, 
he  found  most  of  those  gentlemen  who,  on  the  afternoon 
before,  had  been  so  affable  and  good-humored.  Not  a  man 
of  them  recognized  him.  He  ventured  to  address  a  remark  to 
some  of  them.  They  either  made  no  reply  at  all,  or  else  merely 
answered  yes  or  no.  He  imagined  he  must  have  offended 
them.  He  tried  to  remember  if  he  had  rated  the  fabrics  of 
Lyons  above  theirs,  if  he  had  said  that  the  French  cooks 
were  better  than  the  English,  if  he  had  intimated  that  Paris 
was  a  more  agreeable  city  th;m  London,  if  he  had  hinted 
that  time  passed  more  pleasantly  at  Versailles  than  at  St. 
James's,  or  if  he  had  been  guilty  of  any  other  enormity  of 
that  kind.  No,  his  conscience  acquitted  him  of  all  guilt. 
-^At  length,  "  with  an  air  of  vivacity  that  appeared  very  strange 
to  them,"  he  took  the  liberty  of  asking  one  of  them  why 
they  were  all  so  melancholy.  The  prospect  of  being  able  to 
"  chaff  "  a  Frenchman  appears  to  have  put  a  little  animation 
into  this  group  of  silent  Britons.  One  of  them  replied,  with 
a  scowl,  "  The  wind  is  east."  At  this  moment  one  of  their 
friends  came  up,  who  said,  with  an  unmoved  countenance, 
"  Molly  has  cut  her  throat  this  morning.  Her  lover  found 
her  dead  in  her  bedroom,  with  a  bloody  razor  at  her  side." 
The  company,  "  who  all  were  Molly's  friends,"  received  this 
horrid  intelligence  without  so  much  as  lifting  their  eyebrows. 
One  of  them  merely  asked  what  had  become  of  the  lover.  "  He 
has  bought  the  razor,"  quietly  remarked  one  of  the  company. 

The  stranger,  who  seemed  to  take  all  this  seriously  and 
affects  to  relate  it  seriously,  could  not  refrain  from  inquir- 
ing further  into  such  a  terrible  tragedy.  Appalled  at  once  at 
the  event  and  at  tlie  indifference  of  the  company,  he  asked 
what  could  have  induced  a  gii'l,  apparently  fortunate,  to 
put  an  end  to  her  existence  in  so  revolting  a  manner.  They 
only  replied  that  the  wind  was  east.  Not  being  able  to  per- 
ceive anything  in  common  between  an  east  wind  and  the 
suicide  of  a  young  girl  or  the  melancholy  humor  of  the  mer- 
chants, he  abruptly  left  the  coffee-house,  and  sought  again 
his   fashionable    friends    at   court.     There,    too,  all  was  sad ; 


FIRST   IMPRESSIONS  OF  ENGLAND.  199 

and  nobody  could  talk  about  anything  but  the  east  wind. 
He  thought  of  the  Dane  whom  he  had  met  on  the  stand  at 
Greenwich  Fair,  and  was  inclined  to  laugh  at  the  false  idea 
he  was  carrying  home  with  him  of  the  English  climate;  but, 
to  his  amazement,  he  found  that  the  climate  was  haviup" 
its  effect  upon  himself,  —  he  could  not  laugh !  Expressing 
his  surprise  to  one  of  the  court  physicians,  the  doctor  told 
him  not  to  be  astonished  so  soon,  for  in  the  months  of  No- 
vember and  Mai'ch  he  would  have  cause  indeed  to  wonder. 
Tlien  people  hanged  themselves  by  dozens,  everybody  was 
sick  with  low  spirits,  and  a  black  melancholy  overspread 
the  whole  nation  ;  for  in  those  months  the  wind  blew  most 
frequently  from  the  east.  "  This  wind,"  continued  the  doc- 
tor, "  is  the  bane  of  our  island.  The  very  animals  suffer 
from  it,  and  wear  a  dejected  look.  Men  robust  enough  to 
stand  this  cursed  wind  lose  at  least  their  good  humor.  Every 
one  shows  a  severe  countenance  and  has  a  mind  disposed  to 
desperate  resolutions.  It  was  an  east  wind  that  cut  off  the 
head  of  Charles  I.  and  dethroned  James  II."  Then,  whisper- 
ing in  the  ear  of  the  Frenchman,  he  added,  "  If  you  have  a  favor 
to  ask  at  court,  never  ask  it  unless  the  wind  is  west  or  south." 
It  was  not  alone  the  courtiers  and  the  merchants  who 
were  disposed  to  amuse  themselves  with  this  inquisitive  for- 
eigner. He  was  in  a  boat  one  day  upon  the  Thames.  One  of 
the  oarsmen,  seeing  that  he  had  a  Frenchman  for  a  passenger, 
began  to  boast  of  the  superior  liberty  of  his  country,  and 
declared,  with  an  oath,  tluit  he  would  rather  be  a  Thames 
boatman  than  a  French  archbishop.  The  next  day,  Voltaire 
relates,  he  saw  this  very  man  at  the  window  of  a  prison, 
stretching  his  hand  through  the  bars.  "  What  do  you  think 
now  of  a  French  archbishop?"  cried  Voltaire.  "Ah,  sir," 
replied  the  man,  "the  abominable  government  we  have! 
They  have  forced  me  away  from  my  wife  and  children  to 
serve  in  a  king's  ship,  and  have  put  me  in  prison  and  chained 
my  feet,  for  fear  I  should  run  away  before  the  ship  sails." 
A  Frenchman  who  was  with  Voltaire  at  the  time  confessed 
that  he  felt  a  malicious  pleasure  in  seeing  that  the  English, 
who  reproached  the  French  with  tlieir  servitude,  were  as  much 
slaves  as  they.  "  I  had  a  sentiment  more  humane,"  remarks 
Voltaire.     "I  was  grieved    that    there  was   no   more   liberty 


200  LIFE   OF   VOLTATRE. 

on  earth."  He  consoled  himself,  also,  with  observing  that,  if 
the  king  impressed  sailors,  everybody  in  Evigland  could  speak 
and  write  with  sufficient  freedom.  "  I  have  seen  four  very 
learned  treatises  against  the  reality  of  the  miracles  of  Jesus 
Christ  printed  here  with  impunity,  at  a  time  when  a  poor 
bookseller  was  put  into  the  pillory  for  publishing  a  transla- 
tion of  "  La  Religieuse  en  Chemise."  He  thought  it  a  strange 
British  inconsistency  that  the  government  should  permit  the 
printing  of  heresy  and  punish  the  publication  of  indecency. 
A  few  days  after,  he  observed  another  oddity  at  Newmarket. 
He  was  told  that  there  he  would  see  the  true  Olympic 
Games.  He  saw,  indeed,  a  concourse  of  noblemen,  the  king 
and  royal  famil3%  and  a  "  prodigious  number  of  the  swiftest 
horses  in  Europe  flying  around  the  course,  ridden  by  little  pos- 
tilions in  silk  jackets  ;  "  but  he  also  saw  "  jockeys  of  quality  bet- 
ting ngainst  one  another,  who  put  into  this  solemnity  more  of 
swindling  than  magnificence."  ^  He  preferred  Greenwich  Fair 
to  Newmarket  races. 

These  may  be  taken  as  his  first  impressions  of  England  ; 
and  probably  the  strange  things  he  saw  on  every  side  distracted 
and  amused  him  for  a  few  days  or  weeks.  But  he  had  not 
come  to  England  to  stay.  He  had  promised  the  minister  to 
go  to  England;  but  he  had   entered,  so  far  as  we  know,  into 

N  no  engagement  as  to  the  length   of  his  stay.     A  few  weeks 

after  his  arrival,  he  returned  secretly  to  France,  in  quest  of 
Rohan.  He  concealed  himself  there,  and,  as  it  seems,  wore 
some  disguise.  He  saw  no  member  of  his  family :  not  his 
sister,  whom  he  loved  ;  still  less  his  brother,  whom  he  did 
not  love.  He  did  not  let  his  comrade,  Thieriot,  know  that 
he  had  been  in  Paris  until  he  was  safe  out  of  it,  perhaps 
at  Rouen,  more  than  once  his  hiding-place.  Fi'om  his  retreat 
in  France  he  wrote,  August  12,  1726,  to  Thieriot  a  long 
and  melancholy  letter.  He  remained  during  many  months  of 
this  year  in  the  depths  of  gloom. 

"  I  will  confess  to  you,  my  dear  Thieriot  [he  wrote],  that  I  made 

a  little  joiirney  to  Paris  lately.     Since  I  did  not  see  you,  you  will 

easily  conclude  that  I  saw  no  one.     I  sought  but  a  single  man,  whom 

the  instinct  of  his  poltroonery  concealed  from  me,  as  if  he  had  di- 

"'     vined  that  I  was  on  his  track.     At  last,  the  fear  of  being  discovered 

1  35  CEuvrcs  de  Voltaire,  7. 


FIEST  IMPRESSIONS   OF  ENGLAND. 


201 


made  me  leave  more  precipitately  than  I  carae.  I  am  still  uncertain 
whether  I  shall  return  to  London.  England  is  a  country,  I  know, 
where  all  the  arts  are  honored  and  recompensed ;  where  there  is  a  dif- 
ference in  conditions,  but  none  between  man  and  man  except  that  of 
merit.  It  is  a  country  where  men  think  freely  and  nobly,  unrestrained 
by  servile  fear.  If  I  should  follow  my  inclination,  it  is  there  that  I 
should  fix  myself,  if  only  to  learn  how  to  think.  But  I  know  not  if 
my  limited  fortune,  much  disordered  by  my  frequent  journeys,  my  bad 
health,  now  worse  than  ever,  and  my  preference  for  the  most  profound 
seclusion,  will  permit  me  to  encounter  the  clatter  and  bustle  of  White- 
hall and  London.  I  am  well  introduced  in  that  country,  and  I  am 
expected  there  with  cordiality  enough  ;  but  I  cannot  assure  you  that 
I  shall  make  the  voyage.  I  have  but  two  things  to  do  in  my  life : 
one,  to  risk  it  with  honor  as  soon  as  I  can ;  and  the  other,  to  pass 
what  shall  remain  of  it  in  the  obscurity  of  a  retreat  suited  to  my  Way 


iJ 


of  thinking,  to  my  misfortunes,  and  to  my  knowledge  of  men. 

"  I  abandon  with  good  heart  my  pensions  from  the  king  and  queen ; 
regretting  only  not  to  have  been  able  to  secure  you  a  share  of  them. 
It  would  be  a  consolation  to  me  in  my  solitude  to  think  that  I  had 
been  able,  once  in  my  life,  to  be  of  some  use  to  you ;  but  I  am  fated 
to  be  unfortunate  in  all  ways.     The  greatest  pleasure  an  honest  man 

can  feel,  that  of  giving  pleasure  to  his  friends,  is  denied  to  me 

If  I  have  still  some  friends  who  pronounce  my  name  in  your  hearing, 
speak  to  them  of  me  with  moderation,  and  cherish  the  remembrance 
which  they  are  willing  to  preserve  of  me." 

He  remained  in  concealment  for  about  two  months ;  then 
crossed  the  Channel  once  more,  and  prepared  to  settle  in  Eng- 
land. A  budget  of  letters  awaited  him,  the  first  he  had  re- 
ceived since  leaving  the  Bastille.  Among  them  was  one  from 
a  Mademoiselle  Bessieres,  who  had  been  an  inmate  of  his  fa- 
ther's house,  and  was  in  some  way  closely  allied  to  the  family. 
She  may  have  been  his  governess.  From  her  he  now  received 
the  intelligence  of  his  only  sister's  death.  The  letter  whicb 
he  wrote  in  reply  was  all  tenderness  and  contrition.  Weaned 
from  the  great  world  which  had  flattered,  deluded,  and  aban- 
doned him,  his  heart  softened  toward  his  kindred  and  the 
friends  of  his  childhood,  even  toward  that  Jansenist  of  a 
brother  of  his,  who,  as  he  thought,  had  behaved  less  like  a 
brother  than  ever  to  him  since  his  father's  estate  had  been  in 
litigation.  Thus  he  wrote  to  Mademoiselle  Bessieres,  October 
15,  1726  :  — 


< 


Q^. 


\ 


202  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

"  What  can  I  say  to  you,  mademoiselle,  about  the  death  of  my  sis- 
ter, if  not  that  it  would  have  been  far  better  for  our  family  and  for 
me  if  I  had  been  taken  away  in  her  stead  ?  It  is  not  for  me  to  speak 
to  you  of  the  little  imijortance  I  attach  to  this  passage,  so  short  and 
so  difficult,  which  is  called  life.  Upon  that  subject  you  have  ideas 
more  enlightened  than  I,  and  drawn  from  purer  sources.  I  am  ac- 
('^  quainted  only  with  the  sorrows  of  life,  but  you  know  their  remedies ; 
and  the  difference  between  us  is  that  between  patient  and  doctor. 

"  I  pray  you,  mademoiselle,  to  have  the  goodness  to  fulfill  even  to 
the  end  the  charitable  zeal  which  you  deign  to  have  for  me  on  this 
mournful  occasion.  Either  prevail  upon  my  brother  to  give  me,  with- 
out a  single  moment's  delay,  some  news  of  his  health,  or  else  give  me 
some  yourself.  He  alone  remains  to  you  of  all  my  father's  family, 
which  you  regarded  as  your  own.  As  for  me,  you  must  no  more 
count  me.  Not  that  I  do  not  still  live,  so  far  as  regards  the  respect 
and  affection  that  I  owe  to  you  ;  but  I  am  dead  for  all  else.  You  are 
gi-eatly  mistaken  —  permit  me  to  say  it  to  you  with  tenderness  and 
grief  —  in  supposing  that  I  have  forgotten  you.  I  have  committed 
"many  faults  in  the  course  of  my  life.  The  chagrins  and  sufferings 
which  have  marked  almost  all  my  days  have  often  been  my  own  work. 
I  feel  how  little  worthy  I  am.  My  weaknesses  seem  pitiful  to  me, 
and  my  faults  strike  me  with  horror.  But  God  is  my  witness  that  I 
love  virtue,  and  that  therefore  I  am  tenderly  attached  to  you  for  my 
jwhole  life.  Adieu  ;  I  embrace  you.  Allow  me  to  use  this  expression 
With  all  the  respect  and  all  the  gratitude  which  I  owe  to  Mademoiselle 


essieres." 


In  a  similar  strain  he  wrote  the  next  day  to  Madame  de 
Bernieres,  telling  her  that  he  was  more  dead  to  the  world  even 
than  his  dead  sister,  and  entreating  her  to  forget  everything 
about  him  except  the  moments  when  she  had  assured  him  she 
would  always  be  his  friend.  "  Reckon  the  moments  when  I 
may  have  displeased  you  among  the  number  of  my  misfort- 
unes, and  love  me  from  generosity,  if  you  cannot  any  longer 
from  inclination." 

To  complete  his  unhappiness,  he  suffered  a  considerable  loss 
of  money  soon  after  his  arrival  in  England.  He  brought  with 
him  a  letter  of  credit  upon  Acosta,  a  Jewish  banker,  upon 
presenting  wdiich  he  received  a  reply  which  Wagniere  thus 
reports  :  "  Sir,  I  am  very  sorry  ;  I  cannot  pay  you  ;  for,  in  the 
name  of  the  Lord,  I  went  into  bankruptcy  three  days  ago."  ^ 
1  1  Mdmoires  sur  Voltaire,  par  Longchamp  and  Wagniere,  23. 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  ENGLAND.  203 

Voltaire,  thirty  years  after,  used  to  tell  this  story  in  his  ban- 
tering manner,  and  state  the  amount  of  his  loss  at  twenty  thou- 
sand francs.  The  banker,  he  used  to  say,  had  "  the  generos- 
ity" to  pay  him  some  guineas,  which  a  bankrupt  could  not 
have  been  compelled  to  do ;  and  secretary  Wagniere  adds  that 
"  the  king  of  England,  having  heard  of  the  stranger's  embar- 
rassment, sent  him  a  hundred  guineas."  His  pensions  from 
the  French  court  were  not  paid  during  his  stay  abroad.  He 
was  not  present  to  call  for  the  money,  and  under  the  regime 
of  the  period  the  claims  of  a  pensioner  in  disgrace  were  not 
likely  to  receive  attention  at  the  treasury.  Thus,  at  the  age"'' 
of  thirty-two,  for  a  proper  and  becoming  retort  to  a  black- 
guard's insult,  he  saw  himself  obliged  to  begin  the  world  anew 
in  a  foreign  land,  the  very  language  of  which  he  knew  scarcely 
anything  of.  To  an  ordinary  traveler  ignorance  of  the  lan- 
guage of  a  foreign  country  is  merely  an  inconvenience ;  but  to 
this  stranger  language  was  the  tool  of  his  vocation,  and  he  had 
deliberately  forborne  to  acquire  skill  in  the  use  of  any  other. 

But  he  rose  to  the  occasion.  He  put  forth  that  peculiar 
energy,  intense,  well-directed,  good-humored,  sustained,  which 
men  exert  who  conquer  the  world,  and  remain  victorious  to 
the  end.  And,  first  of  all,  to  get  possession  of  the  language 
of  his  new  country.  He_  studied  English  as  though  he  ex- 
pected to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days  in  England,  and  meant  to 
try  a  career  as  an  English  author.  His  introduction  to  the 
Walpoles  and  his  acquaintance  with  the  Bolingbrokes  opened 
to  him  the  most  interesting  houses,  political  and  literary  ;  but 
it  was  not  among  the  lords  of  the  isle  that  he  found  the  one 
helpful  friend  a  stranger  needs  while  he  is  struggling  with  a 
new  language.  Among  the  men  of  business  whom  he  may 
have  met  at  Greenwich  Fair  was  Everard  Falkener,  silk  and 
cloth  merchant,  afterwards  Sir  Everard  Falkener,  English  am- 
bassador at  Constantinople.  This  gentleman,  who  was  well 
versed  in  the  classic  languages,  a  collector  of  ancient  coins  and 
medals,  and  possessor  of  a  good  library,  lived  at  Wandsworth, 
a  pleasant  village  on  the  Thames,  four  or  five  miles  above 
London,  and  not  far  from  Richmond.  In  the  hospitable  man- 
ner of  the  time  he  took  the  stranger  home,  and  kept  him  there 
a  favored  guest  whenever  he  was  not  invited  elsewhere.  Ever- 
ard Falkener's  house  at  Wandsworth  was,  in  fact,  the  home 


204  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

of  the  exile  during  his  stay  in  England  ;  and  these  two  re- 
mained friends  and  correspondents  for  thirty-five  years  after, 
or  as  long  as  both  lived.  The  friendship  was  continued  even 
to  the  next  generation ;  for  Voltaire  lived  to  welcome  under 
his  own  roof  at  Ferney  two  grown  sons  of  Sir  Everard  Falk- 
ener,  to  sit  between  them  at  his  own  table,  and  tell  them 
stories  of  the  time  when  their  father  was  a  father  to  him  in 
England.  Curiously  enough,  he  foretold  the  ambassadorship 
of  Falkener.  "  I  was  a  prophet  once  in  my  life,"  he  wrote,  in 
1738,  to  Thieriot,  "  although  not  in  my  own  country.  It  was 
in  London,  at  our  dear  Falkener's  house.  He  was  only  a  mer- 
chant, and  I  predicted  that  he  would  be  ambassador  at  the 
Forte.     He  laughed  ;  but,  behold,  he  is  ambassador!  " 

The  merchant,  we  may  infer,  was  a  contented,  cheerful  soul, 
without  desire  to  be  ambassador  or  baronet.  Voltaire  quotes, 
in  his  "  Remarks  upon  Pascal,"  a  few  pleasant  lines  of  a  letter 
which  he  received  from  Falkener  in  1728 :  "  I  am  here  just 
as  you  left  me :  neither  merrier,  nor  sadder,  nor  richer,  nor 
poorer ;  enjoying  perfect  health,  having  everything  that  ren- 
ders life  agreeable ;  without  love,  without  avarice,  without  am- 
bition, and  without  envy,  — and  as  long  as  all  that  lasts  I  shall 
call  myself  a  very  happy  man.''  This  is  a  good  kind  of  per- 
soii  for  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  to  fall  in  with. 

An  inmate  now  of  an  English  home,  and  a  frequent  guest 
at  others,  he  was  much  surprised,  it  appears,  at  their  plain  fur- 
niture and  meagre  decoration.  London,  he  afterwards  wrote, 
was  very  far,  in  1726,  from  being  equal  to  Paris,  either  in 
splendor,  in  taste,  in  sumptuosity,  in  costly  objects,  in  agree- 
ableness,  in  the  fine  arts,  or  in  the  art  of  society.  He  declared 
that  there  were  "  five  hundred  times  more  silver  plate  in  the 
houses  of  Paris  bourgeois  than  in  those  of  London."  A  Paris 
notary,  solicitor,  or  draper,  he  said,  was  better  lodged,  better 
furnished,  better  served,  than  a  magistrate  of  the  first  city  of 
England  ;  and  Paris  consumed  in  one  day  more  poultry  and 
game  than  London  in  a  week.  Paris,  he  thought,  burned  a 
thousand  times  more  wax  candles  than  London  ;  for,  except  at 
the  court  end,  London  was  lighted  only  with  tallow.^ 

Under  Falkener's  hospitable  roof,  with  inmates  eager  to  as- 
sist him,  he  improved  rapidly  in  his  English.     We  all  under- 

1  61  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  403. 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  ENGLAND.  205 

rate  the  obstacles  in  the  way  of  making  a  conquest  of  another 
language,  a  feat  so  difficult  as  to  approach  impossibility,  and 
few  men  have  ever  really  done  it  since  our  race  began  to  artic- 
ulate. It  is  probably  true,  as  a  writer  has  recently  asserted, 
that  not  more  than  three  educated  men  are  ever  alive  at  the 
same  time  who  know  a  foreign  tongue  as  well  as  they  know 
their  own.  Voltaire  evidently  meant  to  be  one.  English,  he 
would  say,  was  "  a  learned  language,"  and  deserved  to  be 
studied  as  such.  The  reader  shall  see  for  himself  what  prog- 
ress he  made.  He  landed  on  English  soil  in  May,  1726  ;  and 
we  have  three  English  letters  of  his  written  within  the  first 
nine  months  of  his  stay.  Unfortunately,  the  least  correct  one 
comes  to  us  without  date,  but  we  may  suppose  it  written  in 
the  summer  of  1726.  It  was  copied  from  the  original  manu- 
script without  change.  The  John  Brinsden,  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  appears  to  have  been  a  wine  merchant,  and  to  have 
had  relations  with  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

"  Sir,  —  j  wish  you  good  health,  a  quick  sale  of  y''  burgundy,  much 
latin,  and  greeke  to  one  of  y"  children,  much  Law,  much  of  cooke  and 
littleton,  to  the  other,  quiet  and  joy  to  mistress  brinsden,  money  to 
all.  when  you'll  drink  y''  burgundy  with  mr  furneze,  pray  tell  him 
j'll  never  forget  his  favours. 

"  But  dear  John  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  know  how  does  my  lady  Bol- 
lingbroke,  as  to  my  lord  j  left  him  so  well  j  dont  doubt  he  is  so  still, 
but  j  am  very  uneasie  about  my  lady.  If  she  might  have  as  much 
health  as  she  has  spirit  &  witt,  Sure  she  would  be  the  Strongest  body 
in  england.  Pray  dear  s''  write  me  Something  of  her,  of  my  lord, 
and  of  you.  direct  y""  letter  by  the  penny  post  at  m''  Cavalier,  Beli- 
tery  square  by  the  li  Exchange,  j  am  sincerely  &  hearlily  y''  most 
humble  most  obedient  rambling  friend  Voltaire. 

"  John  Brinsden,  esq. 
durham's  yard 
by  charhig  cross."  ^ 

This  being  about  such  a  letter  as  he  would  be  equal  to  after 
two  or  three  months  of  English  study,  we  may  presume  that  it 
was  written  before  he  returned  to  France  in  search  of  his  chev- 
alier. Our  next  specimen  is  dated  in  November  ;  but  probably 
its  mere  verbal  correctness  is  due  to  the  English  editor  who 

1  Notes  and  Queries,  1868.  "I  transcribe  [says  a  correspondent  of  Notes  and 
Queries]  the  following  letter  from  the  Bazar,  or  Literary  and  Scientific  Reposi- 
tory, 4to,  1824,  an  obscure  and  forgotten  periodical  published  in  Birmingham." 


206  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE.     ^ 

first  gave  it  to  the  public.  It  is  a  note  addressed  to  Alexander 
Pope,  after  his  overturn  in  Lord  Bolingbroke's  great  six-horse 
coach,  near  Dawly,  in  Shropshire.  The  accident  happened  in 
crossing  a  bridge,  and  Pope  was  thrown  into  the  stream. 

"  Sir  :  —  I  hear  this  moment  of  your  sad  adventure  :  the  water  you 
fell  into  was  not  HipjDOCi-ene's  water ;  otherwise  it  would  have  sup- 
ported you  :  indeed,  I  am  concerned  beyond  expression  for  the  danger 
you  have  been  in,  and  more  for  your  wounds.  Is  it  possible,  that 
those  fingers  which  have  written  '  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,'  the  '  Criti- 
cism,' and  which  have  so  becomingly  dressed  Homer  in  an  English 
coat,  should  have  been  so  barbarously  treated  ?  Let  the  hand  of  Den- 
nis or  of  your  poetasters  be  cut  off,  —  yours  is  sacred.  I  hope,  sir, 
you  are  now  perfectly  recovered.  Really,  your  accident  concerns  me 
as  much  as  all  the  disasters  of  a  master  ought  to  affect  his  scholar.  I 
am  sincerely,  sir,  with  the  admiration  which  you  deserve, 

"  Your  most  humble  servant, 

"  Voltaire. 

"  In  my  Lord  Bolingbroke's  House, 
Friday,  at  noon,  Nov.  16,  1726.' 


Our  third  specimen  is  a  familiar  letter,  written  in  March, 
1727,  to  Thieriot,  who  had  asked  him  to  find  some  books  in 
London ;  as  Thieriot,  too,  was  deep  in  English  studies,  and  de- 
sired to  get  a  popular  English  book  to  translate  into  French. 
Voltaire  began  his  letter  in  French,  telling  him  that  the  parcel 
of  books  was  on  its  way  to  Calais,  whence  it  would  be  con- 
veyed by  coach  to  Paris.  Then  he  broke  into  English  in  the 
manner  following :  — 


^& 


"  It  was  indeed  a  very  hard  task  formed  to  find  that  damned  book 
which,  under  the  title  of  '  Improvement  of  Human  Reason '  [a  trans- 
lation from  the  Arabic],  is  an  example  of  nonsense  from  one  end  to 
the  other,  and  which  besides  is  a  tedious  nonsense,  and  consequently 
very  distasteful  to  the  French  nation,  that  detests  madness  itself,  when 
madness  is  languishing  and  flat.  The  book  is  scarce,  because  it  is  bad, 
it  being  the  fate  of  all  wretched  books  never  to  be  printed  again.  So 
I  spent  almost  a  fortnight  in  the  search  of  it,  till  at  last  I  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  find  it. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  read  it  throughout,  that  spiritless  nonsense 
romance,  though  indeed  you  deserve  to  read  it,  to  do  penance  for  the 
trouble  you  gave  me  to  inquire  after  it,  for  the  tiresome  perusal  I 
made  of  some  parts  of  this  whimsical,  stupid  performance,  and  for 


riEST   IMFRESSIONS   OF  ENGLAND.  207 

your  credulity  iu  believiug  those  who  gave  you  so  great  an  idea. of  so 
mean  a  thing. 

'"  You  will  find  in  the  same  parcel  the  second  volume  of  M.  Gulli- 
ver, which  (by  the  by  I  don't  advise  you  to  translate)  strikes  at  the 
first ;  the  other  is  overstrained.  The  reader's  imagination  is  pleased 
and  charmingly  entertained  by  the  new  prospect  of  the  lands  which 
Gulliver  discovers  to  him  ;  but  that  continued  series  of  new  fane-les. 
of  follies,  of  fairy  tales,  of  wild  inventions,  pall  at  last  upon  our  taste. 
Nothing  unnatural  may  please  long  :  it  is  for  this  reason  that  com- 
monly the  second  parts  of  romances  are  so  insipid.  Farewell ;  my 
services  to  those  who  remember  me ;  but  I  hope  I  am  quite  forgot 
here  [there  ?]."  ^ 

Tliere  are  sentences  in  this  letter  whicli  show  the  beginnino- 
of  facility  in  English.  "  The  book  is  scarce  because  it  is 
bad,  it  being  the  fate  of  all  wretched  books  never  to  be 
printed  again,"  is  a  good  English  sentence,  besides  containing 
a  valuable  hint  for  the  collectors  of  antiquated  trash.  The 
remark,  however,  did  not  apply  to  the  work  in  question,  which 
was  printed  several  times,  —  once  in  Latin,  and  twice  at  least 
in  English.  Later  in  1727,  when,  perhaps,  he  had  studied 
English  a  little  more  than  a  year,  he  wrote  a  few  lines  of 
English  verse,  which  show  considerable  command  of  the  lan- 
guage :  — 

TO  LAURA  HARLEY. 

Laura,  would  you  know  the  passion 

You  have  kindled  iu  my  breast  ? 
Trifling  is  the  inclination 

That  by  words  can  be  expressed. 
In  my  silence  see  the  lover ; 

True  love  is  by  silence  known  ; 
In  my  eyes  you  '11  best  discover 

All  the  power  of  your  own. 

This  Laura  Harley  was  the  wife  of  an  English  merchant, 
who  obtained  a  divorce  from  her,  and  mentioned  these  lines 
in  his  petition  as  one  of  the  evidences  of  his  right  to  a  divorce. 
They  were,  probably,  on  the  part  of  Voltaire,  a  mere  exer- 
cise in  English,  the  husband's  complaint  being  against  "two 
other  seducers  of  his  wife."  ^ 

From  these  examples  we  may  conclude  that,  early  in  his 

1  Lettres  Inedites  de  Voltaire,  page  35. 

2  Les  Divorces  Anglais,  par  Chiteauueuf,  Paris,  1821.     Quoted  in  18  CEuvres 
de  Voltaire,  240. 


208  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

residence  in  England,  be  was  able  to  take  part  in  conversa- 
tion and  to  read  the  autbors  witb  whom  be  associated.  He 
continued  to  work  bard  in  tbe  language,  and  began  to  write 
in  it  for  tbe  public  eye  before  be  bad  been  eigbteen  months  in 
England.  We  have  about  thirty  letters  of  bis  written  in  Eng- 
lish, many  of  them  to  Falkener,  and  some  after  be  bad  been 
absent  twenty  years  from  England.  These  letters  show  that 
be  was  one  of  those  foreigners  who  could  have  made  English 
entirely  bis  own,  and  that  be  did  actually  make  great  prog- 
ress towards  it.  All  bis  life  be  was  fond  of  throwing  bits  of 
English  into  bis  conversation  and  letters,  and  took  pleasure 
in  speaking  tbe  language  wben  be  was  a  very  old  man,  past 
eigbty.  To  that  very  Franklin  who  was  then  setting  type  in 
a  London  printing-bouse,  a  journeyman  of  nineteen,  be  spoke 
Englisb,  when  tbey  met  in  Paris,  fifty-two  years  after. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

RESIDENCE  IN  ENGLAND. 

He  appears  to  have  known  almost  every  person  of  note 
in  England.  "  Old  Horace  Walpole's  "  letter  of  recommen- 
dation made  him  free  of  the  great  whig  houses  and  circles. 
Writing,  forty-one  years  later,  to  Horace  Walpole,  of  Straw- 
berry Hill,  nephew  to  "  Old  Horace,"  and  son  of  Sir  Rob- 
ert, he  said,  "  Perhaps  I  am  unknown  to  you,  although  I  was 
once  honored  with  the  friendship  of  the  Two  Brothers."  ^ 
So  the  Walpoles  were  often  styled  at  the  time  when  one 
of  them  was  supreme  in  home  politics,  and  the  other  well 
skilled  in  those  of  Continental  courts.  The  conspicuous 
whig  house  then  was  the  new  seat  of  Bubb  Dodington  in 
Dorsetshire,  where  authors  and  artists  were  among  the  frequent 
and  most  welcome  guests,  and  where  also  the  Two  Broth- 
ers or  their  colleagues  were  occasionally  t6  be  met.  Voltaire 
was  soon  a  familiar  guest  at  this  magnificent  abode. 

Edward  Young,  who  had  not  yet  written  the  "  Night 
Thoughts,"  nor  even  taken  orders,  though  forty-six  years  of 
age,  was  often  there  in  those  years.  He  was  at  this  period 
a  poet  and  dramatist  of  great  celebrity,  known  to  the  London 
public  chiefly  as  the  author  of  the  hideous  and  popular  trag- 
edy of  "The  Revenge,"  a  play  that  afforded  fine  howling  to 
the  tragedians  of  two  generations.  Oddly  enough,  Voltaire, 
future  author  of  "  La  Pucelle,"  and  Young,  of  the  "  Night 
Thoughts,"  became  and  long  remained  very  good  friends, 
discoursing  much  together  at  Dodington's  on  matters  lit- 
erary. On  one  occasion,  as  Spence  records,  the  conversa- 
tion turned  upon  the  dialogue  in  "  Paradise  Lost "  (Book  X.) 
between  Sin  and  Death,  beginning,  — 

"  Within  the  gates  of  hell  sat  Sin  and  Death, 
In  counterview  within  the  gates,  that  now 

1  Voltaire  a  Ferney,  page  410. 

VOL.  I.  14 


"   VOLTAIRE. 

Idling  outrageous  flame 
xar  iruo  v^naos,  smce  the  fiend  passed  through,  , 

Sin  opening ;  who  thus  now  to  Death  began  : 
'  O  son,  why  sit  we  here  each  other  viewing  ?  '  " 

Voltaire,  with  vehemence,  objected  to  the  personification  of 
Sin  and  Death.  The  reader  has  only  to  glance  at  the  passage 
in  Milton,  and  then  think  of  Voltaire's  reading  it  before  he 
was  at  all  equal  to  such  English  as  that,  and  he  will  feel  how 
absurd  it  must  have  seemed  to  him.  Young  replied  by  the 
well-known  epigram,  of  which  the  best  version  is  given  by 
Dr.  Johnson  : — 

"  '  You  are  so  witty,  profligate,  and  thin. 

At  once  we  think  you  Milton,  Death,  and  Sin."i 

This  happy  stroke,  it  appears,  softened  the  severity  of  the 
French  critic.  Young  remembered  the  incident  when,  many 
years  later,  he  dedicated  his  "  Sea  Piece  "  "to  Mr.  Voltaire." 

" '  Tell  me,'  say'st  thou,  '  who  courts  my  smile  1 
What  stranger  strayed  from  yonder  isle  ?  ' 
Ko  stranger,  sir,  though  born  in  foreign  climes  ; 
On  Dorset  Downs,  where  Milton's  page 
With  Sin  and  Death  provoked  thy  rage, 
Thy  rage  provoked,  who  soothed  with  gentle  rhymes ; 
Who  kindly  couched  thy  censure's  eye. 
And  gave  thee  clearly  to  descry 
Sound  judgment  giving  law  to  fancy  strong; 
Who  half  inclined  thee  to  confess, 
Nor  could  thy  modesty  do  less. 
That  Milton's  blindness  lay  not  in  his  song. 
But  such  debates  long  since  are  flown, 
Forever  set  the  suns  that  shone 
On  airy  pastimes  ere  our  brows  were  gray ; 
How  shortly  shall  we  both  forget, 
To  thee,  my  patron,  I  my  debt, 
And  thou  to  thine,  for  Prussia's  golden  key." 

These  lines,  written  not  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  century 
after  the  conversation  upon  Milton,  show  us,  at  least,  that  it 
made  a  lively  impression  upon  the  mind  of  the  English  poet. 
Another  poet,  often  a  guest  of  Dodington's,  may  have  taken 
part  in  it,  —  Thomson,  whose  "  Winter  "  was  then  in  its  first 
popularity.  He  sold  the  manuscript  for  three  guineas  in  1726, 
saw  the  third  edition  before  the  year  was  out,  and  was  now 
brina^ing:  forward  the  other  "Seasons."  Voltaire  mentions" 
having  known  him  in  England,  and  speaks  slightingly  of  his 
poetry. 

1  2  Lives  of  the  Poets,  529.    N.  Y.  edition,  1861. 


RESIDENCE  IN  ENGLAND.  211 

Swift  was  then  at  the  summit  of  his  career ;  for  in  1724 
he  gave  Ireland  the  "  Drapier  Letters,"  and  in  172G  he  pub- 
lished the  first  part  of  "  Gulliver's  Travels."  He  was  much 
in  England  during  Voltaire's  stay,  and  the  French  poet  be- 
came familiar  with  him.  When  Swift  visited  France,  in  1727, 
he  carried  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Voltaire  to  Count  de 
Morville,  the  French  minister  for  foreign  affairs.  "  I  be- 
lieve," wrote  Voltaire  in  this  epistle,  "  that  you  will  not  be 
sorry  to  dine  with  M.  Swift  and  President  H6nault ;  and  I 
flatter  myself  that  you  will  regard  as  a  proof  of  my  sincere 
attachment  to  your  person  the  liberty  I  take  in  presenting  to 
you  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  men  that  England  has  pro- 
duced, and  the  most  capable  of  feeling  all  the  extent  of  your 
great  qualities." 

The  dramatist  Congreve,  long  retired  from  active  life  on 
munificent  pensions  and  sinecures,  was  another  of  Voltaire's 
English  acquaintances.  "  He  was  infirm  and  almost  dying," 
the  exile  records,  "  when  I  knew  him.  He  had  one  fault,  — 
that  of  not  sufficiently  esteeming  his  first  trade  of  author, 
which  had  made  his  fame  and  fortune.  He  spoke  to  me  of 
his  works  as  trifles  beneath  him,  and  told  me,  at  our  first  con- 
versation, to  visit  him  only  on  the  footing  of  a  gentleman  who 
lived  very  simply.  I  replied  that  if  he  had  had  the  misfort- 
une to  be  only  a  gentleman  like  another,  I  should  never  have 
come  to  see  him;  and  I  was  shocked  at  a  vanity  so  ill  placed." 
It  may  have  been  through  Congreve  that  Voltaire  became 
so  intimate  with  the  valiant  old  Duchess  of  Marlborough^ 
to  whom,  rich  as  she  was,  Congreve  left  his  fortune.  The 
duchess  gave  him  several  choice  morsels  of  information,  which 
he  used  with  effect  in  later  historical  works.  Slie  even  told 
him  the  amount  of  her  revenue  as  widow,  namely,  seventy 
thousand  pounds  sterling.  The  duchess,  he  says,  was  con- 
vinced that  Queen  Anne,  late  in  her  reign,  had  had  a  secret 
interview  in  England  with  her  brother,  James  II.,  and  assured 
him  that  if  he  would  renounce  the  Roman  religion,  "  which 
the  English  regard  as  the  mother  of  tyranny,"  she  would  des- 
igu-ate  him  as  her  successor.^  Several  of  the  old  officers  of 
the  Duke  of  jNIarlborough  supplied  him  with  information  re- 
lating to  the  long  contest  with  Louis  XIV.,  which  he  kept 
1  Si^cle  de  Louis  XIV.,  chapter  xxiv. 


212  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

safe  in  Lis  memory  or  note-book  for  many  a  year,  until  the 
moment  came  for  them  to  fall  into  their  places. 

He  speaks  also  of  having  known  Bishop  Berkeley,  the 
Bishop  of  Rochester,  John  Byng,  afterwards  admiral,  and 
Gay,  the  author  of  the  "  Beggars'  Opera."  He  may  have  wit- 
nessed the  first  performance  of  Gay's  work  in  1727,  the  great 
hit  of  that  year,  —  a  success  that  drew  the  town  away  from 
Handel's  operas,  and  spoiled  his  season.  He  knew  Sir  Hans 
Sloane,  president,  after  Newton's  death,  of  the  Royal  Society. 
Sir  Isaac  Newton  he  just  missed ;  for  Sir  Isaac  died  in  March, 
1727,  before  Voltaire  had  been  a  year  in  the  country. 
\  '  Of  all  the  events  that  occurred  in  England  during  his  resi- 
>A  \  dence  there,  the  one  that  appears  to  have  made  the  deepest 
\  impression  upon  his  mind  was  the  burial  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 
\  He  was  in  London  on  the  28th  of  March,  when  the  remains 
'  of  the  philosopher  lay  in  state  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber,  and 
statesmen,  nobles,  and  philosophers  gathered  there  to  pay  the 
last  homage  to  a  man  whose  sole  claim  to  distinction  was  that 
he  had  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  human  knowledge.  When 
the  body  was  carried  to  its  last  resting-place  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  the  pall  was  borne  by  the  lord  chancellor,  the  highest 
official  in  the  kingdom,  by  the  Duke  of  Montrose  and  the 
Duke  of  Roxburgh,  by  the  Earls  of  Pembroke,  Sussex,  and 
Macclesfield,  —  members  of  the  Royal  Society,  of  which  New- 
ton had  been  president  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  The 
funeral  was  attended  by  a  concourse  of  the  men  highest  in 
rank  and  greatest  in  name  in  England,  and  its  solemn  pag- 
eantry was  witnessed  by  a  multitude  of  citizens  who  under- 
stood little,  it  is  true,  of  what  Newton  had  done  for  them  and 
their  posterity,  but  who  felt,  in  some  degree,  how  becoming  it 
was  in  men  great  by  accident  to  pay  such  honors  to  a  man 
great  by  nature. 

There  were  two  poets  upon  whom  this  scene,  so  honorable 
to  England  and  to  human  nature,  made  a  profound  impression. 
One  of  these  was  Thomson.  In  his  poem  upon  the  death  of 
Newton,  he  expresses  the  feeling  that  in  honoring  him  Eng- 
land redeemed  herself :  — 

"  For,  though  depraved  and  sunk,  she  brought  thee  forth. 
And  glories  in  thy  name  ;  she  points  thee  out 
To  all  her  sons,  and  bids  them  eye  thy  star, 
While,  in  expectance  of  the  second  life, 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENGLAND.  213 

When  time  sh:ill  be  no  more,  thy  sacred  dust 
Sleeps  with  htr  kings,  and  dignifies  the  scene." 

What  a  lasting  impression  was  made  upon  Voltaire's  suscep- 
tible mind  by  Newton's  stately  funeral  the  numerous  allu- 
sions to  it  in  Lis  letters  attest.  In  extreme  old  age,  his  eye 
would  kindle  and  his  countenance  light  up  when  he  spoke  of 
his  once  having  lived  in  a  land  where  a  professor  of  mathe- 
matics, only  because  he  was  great  in  his  vocation,  could  be 
buried  in  a  temple  where  the  ashes  of  kings  reposed,  and  the 
highest  subjects  in  the  kingdom  felt  it  an  honor  to  assist  in 
bearing  thither  his  body. 

He  was  curious  to  know  something  more  of  Newton  than 
he  could  learn  from  the  ordinary  sources  of  information.  In 
his  later  writings  he  alhides  several  times  to  his  having  known 
in  England  INIrs.  Conduit,  Sir  Isaac's  niece.  From  her  lips  he 
heard  the  apple  story,  and  to  him,  as  it  seems,  the  world  owes 
the  preservation  of  that  most  interesting  of  anecdotes.  "  One 
day  in  the  year  1666,  Newton,  then  retired  to  the  country, 
seeing  some  fruit  fall  from  a  tree,  as  I  was  told  by  his  niece, 
Madame  Conduit,  fell  into  a  profound  meditation  upon  the 
cause  which  draws  all  bodies  in  a  line  which,  if  prolonged, 
would  pass  very  nearly  through  the  centre  of  the  earth."  ^ 
He  preserves  on  the  same  page  another  anecdote  of  Newton, 
perhaps  derived  from  the  same  source:  "  A  stranger  asked 
Newton,  one  day,  how  he  had  discovered  the  laws  of  the  uni- 
verse. '  By  thinking  of  them  without  ceasing,'  was  the  phi- 
losopher's reply."  I  wonder  if  he  heard  from  Madame  Con- 
duit the  Newton  anecdote  related  in  the  "  Philosophical  Dic- 
tionary :  "  "  In  my  youth  I  believed  that  Newton  had  made  his 
fortune  by  his  extreme  merit.  I  imagined  that  the  court  and 
city  of  London  had  named  him  by  acclamation  Master  of  the 
Mint.  Not  at  all.  Isaac  Newton  had  a  niece,  sufficiently 
amiable,  named  Madame  Conduit,  who  was  very  pleasing  to 
the  chancellor  of  tho  exchequer,  Halifax.  Infinitesimal  cal- 
culus and  gravitation  would  have  availed  nothing  without  a 
pretty  niece." 

Newton's  study  of  the  prophecies  amazed,  puzzled,  and  even 
saddened  this  studious  exile.    How  such  mighty  powers  of  mind 
could  accommodate  themselves  to  the  mere  consideration  of 
1  Philosophic  do  Newton,  par  Voltaire,  chapter  iii. 


214  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

such  a  subject  was  a  baffling  enigma  to  him.  "  What  a  poor 
species  the  human  race,"  he  exchiims,  "  if  the  great  Newton 
believed  he  had  found  in  the  Apocalypse  the  present  history 
of  Europe  !  "  Elsewhere  he  adds  the  famous  sentence,  "  Ap- 
parently, Newton  wished  by  that  commentary  uj^on  the  Apoc- 
alypse to  console  the  human  race  for  the  superiority  he  had 
over  it."i 

"'  Of  the  authors  whom  Voltaire  met  and  studied  in  England, 
the  one  who  influenced  his  own  writings  most  w^as,  beyond 
/  question,   Alexander   Pope.      The  friendship  of   Bolingbroke 

'  brought  him  at  once  into  cordial  relations  with  the  circle  of 

which  that  nobleman  was  the  idol  and  Pope  the  ornament. 
The  affection  entertained  for  Bolingbroke  by  literary  men  was 
as  remarkable  as  the  detestation  in  which  he  was  held  by  some 
of  his  political  associates.  Pope  paid  him  the  most  stupen- 
dous compliment,  perhaps,  that  one  mortal  ever  bestowed  upon 
another.  "  I  really  think,"  said  Pope,  "  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  that  great  man  which  looks  as  if  he  were  placed  here 
by  mistake.  When  the  comet  appeared  to  us,  a  month  or  two 
ago,  I  had  sometimes  an  imagination  that  it  might  possibly 
have  come  to  our  world  to  carry  him  away,  as  a  coach  comes 
to  one's  door  for  other  visitors."  And  when  Pope  was  dying 
Bolingbroke  hang  sobbing  over  his  chair,  and  said,  "  I  have 
known  him  these  thirty  years,  and  value  myself  more  upon 
that  man's  love  than  "  —  His  voice  failed  him,  and  he  could 
utter  no  more.  Voltaire  was  fond  of  both  these  brilliant  men. 
In  one  of  his  poetical  epistles,  published  in  1726,  he  speaks  of 
Bolingbroke  as  one  who  possessed  the  eloquence  of  Cicero,  the 
intrepidity  of  Cato,  the  wit  of  Maecenas,  and  the  agreeable- 
ness  of  Petronius.  He  loved  him  living,  and  he  defended  him 
dead.  He  relates,  however,  but  one  trifling  anecdote  of  his 
inteucourse  with  Lord  Bolingbroke.  The  conversation  turning 
one  day  upon  the  alleged  avarice  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
some  one  appealed  to  Bolingbroke  to  confirm  the  allegation, 
and  with  the  more  confidence  because  Bolingbroke  had  been 
of  the  party  opposed  to  Marlborough.  His  reply  was,  "  He 
was  so  great  a  man  that  I  have  forgotten  his  faults." 
y  Pope*s  mastery  of  the  art  of  rhyming  would  have  sufficed  to 
attract  the  regard  of  a  man  who  had  written  only  in  rhyme, 

1  7  Dictionnaire  Philosophique,  172. 


V 


\ 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENGLAND.  215 

and  who  thought  that  there  was  no  true  poetry  without  rhyme. ' 
It  appears  that  upon  this  vexed  question  of  rhyme  Pope  and 
Voltaire  were  of  the  same  opinioiij  He  tells  us  that  he  asked 
Pope,  one  day,  why  Milton  had  not  written  "  Paradise  Lost  "  in 
rhyme.  "  Because  he  could  not,"  answered  Pope.  This  does 
not  accord  with  the  experience  of  Pope's  successor  in  Homeric 
translation.  Cowper  says  that  to  rhyme  in  English  demands 
"no  great  exercise  of  ingenuity  ;  "  and  that  he  has  frequently 
written  more  lines  in  a  day  "  with  tags  to  them  "  than  he  ever 
could  without.  Voltaire  and  Pope  were  in  accord  upon  sub- 
jects of  more  importance  than  the  construction  of  poems.  The 
vein  of  moralizing  that  runs  through  many  of  Pope's  produc- 
tions was  peculiarly  pleasing  to  Voltaire,  who  constantly  in- 
sists that  a  poem  should  do  something  more  than  amuse. 
Pope  had  not  yet  written  the  "  Essay  on  Man,"  nor  the  "  Uni- 
versal Prayer ;  "  but  his  conversation  was  much  in  the  spirit 
of  those  works,  which  Voltaire  regarded  as  among  the  choicest 
master-pieces  of  English  literature,  and  which  by  and  by  he 
caused  to  be  translated  into  French. 

'^_^.L^'.^ilsi-9}l^  ^^^^  ^^^^*  prevailed  in  the  circles  of  Pope  and 
Bolingbroke  could^ot  have  differed  materially  from  that  to 
which  the  stranger  was  accustomed  in  France.     Educatedjnen 
of  the  world  in  both  countries  were  very  likely  to  he  deists. 
BiiTm  Jb'rance  no  man  then  dared  print  deism  in  the  vulgar 
tongue,  and  no  moral  teaching  was  allowed  which  did  not  ap- 
pear to  concede  the  claims  of  the  church.     The  great  diction- 
ary, or  cyclopcedia,  of  Pierre  Bayle,  published   originally  in 
1696,  and  enlarged  to  four  volumes  in  1720,  is  indeed  full  of 
that  which  makes  men  doubt  and  deny.     Voltaire  was  familiar 
with  the  work  from  boyhood,  as  were  all  the  reading  men  and 
thinking  men   of  that  generation   in  France.     But  not  only 
was  Bayle  obliged  to  publish  his  work  at  distant  Rotterdam, 
but  in  treating  all  the  delicate  topics  he  was  compelled  to  use 
the  utmost  caution  and  management,  veiling  his  obvious  in- 
credulity under  forms  and  professions  of  respect.     Glance  over 
the  article  upon  Spinoza,  for  example.     Including  the  notes, 
which  are  much  more  voluminous  than  the  text,  we  may  say 
of  this  article  that  it  suggests  and  indicates  the  whole  strug- 
gle of  the  human   mind  with  the  problem  of  the  universe. 
The  opinions  and  conjectures  of  the  ancients,  the  beliefs,  de- 


21G  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

nials,  and  differences  of  the  moderns,  are  all  sketched  or 
stated ;  pantheism,  atheism,  and  deism  are  described  or  de- 
fined ;  and  the  reader  is  assisted,  nay,  compelled,  to  survey 
the  stupendous  and  ever-fascinating  theme  from  a  height  above 
the  belfry  of  the  parish  church.  But  the  parish  church  is,  as 
the  French  say,  "managed"  from  first  to  last.  No  pretext  is 
given  to  the  censor  or  the  inquisitor.  Take  one  specimen  : 
*'  People  who  associated  "with  Spinoza,  and  the  peasants  of  the 
villages  where  he  lived  for  some  time  in  seclusion,  agree  in 
saying  that  he  was  a  man  of  good  habits,  affable,  honest,  oblig- 
ing, and  of  strict  morality.  That  is  strange  ;  but,  really,  it 
is  not  more  astonishing  than  to  see  people  living  very  badly, 
though  they  have  a  full  persuasion  of  the  gospel."  To  this 
passage  profuse  notes  are  appended,  exalting  still  higher  the 
pure  and  noble  character  of  Spinoza.  There  is  scarcely  an 
important  article  in  all  the  four  ponderous  volumes  of  Bayle 
that  does  not  hint  or  insinuate  similar  dissent  from  the  en- 
forced way  of  thinking. 

But  in  England,  as  the  exile  observed,  the  deists  were  not 
obliged  to  insinuate.  Deism,  long  in  vogue  in  the  "great 
world,"  was  now  becoming  popular  among  portions  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  printed  its  thought  with  very  little  reserve  or  "  man- 
agement." And  yet  the  movement  had  begun  at  Paris.  One 
hundred  and  two  years  before  Voltaire  saw  England,  Lord 
Herbert,  English  ambassador  at  Paris,  after  getting,  as  he  sup- 
posed, a  revelation  from  Heaven,  published  his  treatise  against 
revelation,  "  De  Veritate,"  copies  of  which  he  sent  to  the 
learned  of  all  Europe,  and  thus  began  deism.  His  five  points 
were  :  (1.)  There  is  a  God.  (2.)  Man  should  worship  him. 
(3.)  The  practice  of  virtue  is  the  chief  part  of  worship.  (4.) 
Faults  are  expiated  by  repentance.  (5.)  There  must  be  a 
future  of  reward  and  punishment.  The  ambassador  covered 
his  heresies  with  the  safe  and  decent  mantle  of  the  Latin  lan- 
guage ;  and  so  did  some  of  his  successors. 

But  deism  was  now  getting  into  language  which  could  be 
called  vulgar  in  more  senses  than  one.  After  Herbert,  Hobbes, 
and  Sbaftsbury,  came  Toland,  Collins,  Tindal,  and  others,  each 
bolder  than  the  last,  until,  in  1727,  under  the  eyes  of  this 
French  exile,  all  former  audacities  were  eclipsed  by  Woolston 
in  his  "  Six  Discourses  on  the  Miracles."     This  writer,  a  Cam- 


RESIDENCE   IN   ENGLAND.  217 

bridge  master  of  arts,  j)ut  into  coarse,  uncompromising  English 
what  many  deists  were  accustomed  to  utter  in  conversation 
every  time  two  or  three  of  them  found  themselves  together. 
He  affected  to  believe  that  the  miracles  must  be  interpreted 
as  allegories,  because,  if  taken  literally,  they  were  too  absurd 
for  serious  consideration.  He  proceeded  to  comment  upon  each 
miracle  in  turn  with  a  freedom  never  before  seen  in  print, 
but  also  with  the  crude  and  boisterous  humor  that  pleased 
Londoners  when  Hogarth  was  an  apprentice.  He  said,  for  ex- 
ample, that  the  wine  miraculously  made  at  the  wedding  feast 
for  guests  already  drunk  must  have  been  punch,  and  that  the 
whole  story  was  so  monstrous  that  no  one  not  brutalized 
by  superstition  could  believe  it.  This  specimen  will  suffice. 
Since  that  day,  the  reading  world  has  been  familiarized  with 
this  mode  of  treating  such  subjects,  and  has  discovered  how 
inoperative  it  is  when  both  writers  and  writing  are  let  alone. 
It  was  a  startling  novelty  in  1727.  Woolston  advertised  that 
he  would  sell  his  discourses  at  his  own  house,  and  buyers  came 
thither  in  great  numbers.  Voltaire  states  that  thirty  thousand 
copies  were  sold  during  the  last  two  years  of  his  stay  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  no  one  then  molested  the  author.  The  Bishop  of 
London  wrote  live  pastoral  letters  warning  his  flock  against 
these  essays,  and  at  length  caused  Woolston  to  be  prosecuted. 
He  was  sentenced  to  a  year's  imprisonment  and  to  a  fine  of  a 
hundred  pounds.  Refusing  to  give  bonds  not  to  repeat  his 
offense,  he  was  obliged  to  pass  the  brief  remainder  of  his  life 
within  "  the  bounds  "  of  King's  Bench  prison. 

The  lightness  of  AVoolston's  sentence  and  the  length  of 
time  that  elapsed  before  he  was  prosecuted  indicate  the  hold 
which  deism  had  upon  the  public.  Voltaire  saw  it  j)reva- 
lent  in  the  houses  of  noblemen  and  poets,  and  Woolston 's 
career  showed  him  that  it  had  made  ita  way  among  the 
multitude  in  the  shop  and  the  street.  There  were  clubs  of 
deists  in  London,  which  held  weekly  meetings  in  ale-houses, 
and  reconstructed  the  universe  over  pots  of  beer.  Young 
Franklin  composed  his  pamphlet  in  1725  upon  "  Liberty 
and  Necessity,"  designed  to  refute  Wollaston's  "  Religion 
of  Nature,"  which  he  had  assisted  to  set  in  type.  He  car- 
ried negation  in  this  work  far  beyond  deism.  —  even  beyond 
atheism,  if  that  is  possible ;  denying  equally  the  existence  of 


218  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

good  and  the  existence  of  evil,  and  asserting  that  in  every 
state  and  stage  of  conceivable  existence  pleasure  and  pain  gire 
and  must  be  equal  in  quantity. ^  His  companions  were  not 
shocked,  it  appears,  at  these  bold  speculations ;  and,  so  far  as 
we  can  discern,  such  entire  freedom  from  the  traditional  and 
the  legendary  was  held  in  esteem  among  the  workingmen  of 
London. 

None  of  these  things  escaped  the  observation  of  the  exile, 
abundant  in  labors  as  he  was.  To  him  England  was  a  univer- 
sity. Few  strangers  have  ever  extracted  more  in  two  years 
and  a  half  from  a  foreign  country  than  he  from  England  ; 
although,  during  his  residence  there,  he  performed  much  work 
that  remains  readable,  and  is  constantly  read,  to  the  present 
hour.  Note  the  catalogue  of  his  studies  and  labors.  First, 
the  partial  acquisition  of  the  "  learned  language,"  which  in- 
volved a  wide  survey  of  its  literature,  and  a  study  of  many 
authors,  —  Newton,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Dryden,  Locke,  Ba- 
con, Swift,  Pope,  Addison,  the  later  dramatists,  and  many 
others.  It  was  no  easy  task  for  a  Frenchman  of  that  age  to 
so  much  as  forgive  Shakespeare  for  not  being  Racine,  and 
Voltaire  could  never  quite  succeed  in  it.  We  can  trace  his 
struggles  with  the  author  of  "  Macbeth  "  and  "  Hamlet." 

"  Shakespeare  [he  remarks],  the  first  tragic  poet  of  the  English, 
is  rarely  spoken  of  in  England  except  as  divine.  In  Loudon  I 
never  saw  the  theatre  as  full  to  witness  '  L'Andromaque  '  of  Racine, 
well  translated  as  it  is  by  Philips,  or  Addison's  '  Cato,'  as  when  the 
ancient  pieces  of  Shakespeare  were  performed.  These  pieces  are 
monsters  in  tragedy.  There  are  some  plays  the  action  of  which 
lasts  several  years  ;  the  hero,  baptized  in  the  first  act,  dies  of  old 
age  in  the  fifth.  You  see  upon  the  stage  wizards,  peasants,  drunk- 
ards, buffoons,  grave-diggers  digging  a  grave,  who  sing  drinking  songs 
while  playing  with  skulls.  In  a  word,  imagine  what  you  can  of 
most  monstrous  and  most  absurd,  you  will  find  it  in  Shakespeare. 
When  I  began  to  learn  the  English  language,  I  could  not  under- 
stand how  so  enlightened  a  nation  as  the  English  could  admire  so 
extravagant  an  author ;  but  when  I  knew  the  language  better,  I 
perceived  that  the  English  were  right,  and  that  it  is  impossible  for 
a  whole  nation  to  be  deceived  in  a  matter  of  sentiment,  and  mis- 
taken as  to  their  being  pleased.  They  saw,  as  I  saw,  the  crudi- 
ties of  their  favorite  author,  but  they  felt  his  beauties  better  than 

1  For  a  copy  of  this  pamphlet  see  Parton's  Life  of  Franklin,  vol.  i.  p.  607. 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENGLAND.  219 

I  could,  —  beauties  so  much  the  more  remarkable  from  their  having 
flashed  out  in  the  midst  of  profoundest  night.  He  has  enjoyed  his 
reputation  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  The  authors  who  came 
after  him  have  served  to  augment  rather  than  diminish  it.  The 
great  understanding  of  the  author  of  '  Cato,'  and  his  talents,  which 
made  him  a  secretary  of  state,  did  not  give  him  a  place  by  the 
side  of  Shakespeare.  Such  is  the  privilege  of  genius :  it  makes  for 
itself  a  path  where  no  one  went  before ;  it  pursues  its  course  with- 
out guide,  without  art,  without  rule  ;  it  goes  astray  in  its  career, 
but  it  leaves  far  behind  all  excellence  that  is  merely  reasonable  and 
correct.  Such  was  Homer :  he  created  his  art  and  left  it  imper- 
fect ;  his  works  a  chaos,  where  on  all  sides  the  light  shines."  ^ 

Shakespeare,  by  turns,  enraptured  and  repelled  liira.  Re- 
turning from  the  theatre,  one  evening,  after  seeing  with  a 
delight  he  never  forgot  the  "  Julius  Csesar  "  of  Shakespeare, 
he  began  to  write  a  tragedy  of  Brutus  in  English  prose.  He 
continued  the  exercise  until  he  had  composed  the  first  act 
very  nearly  as  he  afterwards  executed  it  in  French  rhyme. 
Lord  Bolingbroke,  who,  he  says,  gave  him  lessons  in  French^ 
as  well  as  in  English,  approved  the  plan,  and  the  work  was 
published  before  he  left  England. 

Durmg  the  whole  year  1727  he  was  full  of  business,  his ! 
most  immediate  scheme  being  the  issue  of  the  London  edi- 
tion of  "La  Henriade"  by  subscription.  He  was  preparing, 
also,  to  write  a  book  upon  England,  and  was  already  at  work 
upon  his  "History  of  Charles  XIL,"  the  material  for  which 
had  been  accumulating  for  some  years,  and  had  gained  im- 
portant accessions  in  London.  To  promote  all  these  objects 
he  now  appeared  as  an  English  author.  In  a  London  monthly 
for  December,  1727,  I  read  the  announcement  of  his  work:  — 

"  An  Essay  upon  the  Civil  Wars  of  France,  extracted 
from  Curious  M.  S.  And  also  upon  the  Epick  Poetry  of 
the  European  nations,  from  Homer  down  to  Milton.  By 
Arouet  de  Voltaire.  London.  Printed  by  Samuel  Fallason 
in  Prujean's  Court,  Old  Bailey,  and  sold  by  the  Booksellers 
of  London  and  Westminster.     1727.     In  8vo.  pagg.  130." 

The  editor  of  the  magazine  merely  adds  a  line  of  comment : 
"  These  two  essays  deserve  to  be  read  by  all  the  curious." 
Among  the  literary  curiosities  in  the  British  Museum  is  Sir 

^  Essai  sur  la  Poesie  Epique,  chapter  iL 


'  1 


220  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Hans  Sloane's  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  this  work,  kept  in  a 
glass  case  under  lock  and  key.  It  is  printed  in  large,  clear, 
open  type,  a  handsome  book,  and  bears  upon  the  upper  part 
of  the  title-page,  in  the  right-hand  corner,  the  following  words 
in  Voltaire's  own  hand  :  — 

To  S"  hanslone 
from  his  most 
humble  servant 
Voltaire. 

The  volume  opens  with  an  "  Advertisement  to  the  Reader," 
printed  in  italics,  which  reads  thus  :  — 

"It  has  the  appearance  of  too  great  presumption  in  a  Traveller 
who  hath  been  but  eighteen  months  in  England,  to  attempt  to  write 
in  a  Language  which  he  cannot  pronounce  at  all,  and  which  he  hardly 
understands  in  Conversation.  But  I  have  done  what  we  do  every 
Day  at  School,  where  we  write  Latin  and  Greek,  tho'  surely  we  pro- 
nounce both  very  pitifully,  and  should  understand  neither  of  them  if 
they  were  uttered  to  us  with  the  right  Roman  or  Greek  pronuncia- 
tion. 

"  I  look  upon  the  English  Language  as  a  learned  one,  which  de- 
serves to  be  the  object  of  our  Application  in  France,  as  the  French 
tongue  is  thought  a  kind  of  Accomplishment  in  England. 

"  Besides  I  did  not  learn  English  for  my  private  satisfaction  and 
improvement  only,  but  out  of  a  kind  of  Duty. 

''  I  am  ordered  to  give  an  Account  of  my  Journey  into  England. 
Such  an  Undertaking  can  no  more  be  attempted  without  understand- 
ing the  Language  than  a  Scheme  of  Astronomy  could  be  laid  without 
the  help  of  Mathematicks.  And  I  have  not  a  mind  to  imitate  the 
late  Mr  Sorbieres,  who  having  stayed  three  months  in  this  Country,  ■ 
without  knowing  anything  either  of  its  manners  or  of  its  language, 
thought  fit  to  print  a  relation  which  proved  but  a  dull,  scurrilous  Sat- 
ire upon  a  Nation  he  knew  nothing  of. 

"  Our  European  travellers,  for  the  most  part,  are  satirical  upon  their 
neighbouring  Countries,  and  bestow  large  Praises  upon  the  Persians 
and  Chinese ;  it  being  too  natural  to  revile  those  who  stand  in  Com- 
petition with  us ;  and  to  extol  those,  who  being  far  remote  from  us, 
are  out  of  the  reach  of  Envy. 

"  The  true  aim  of  a  Relation  is  to  instruct  Men,  not  to  gratify  their 
Malice.  We  should  be  busied  chiefly  in  giving  faithful  Accounts  of 
all  the  useful  Tilings,  and  of  the  extraordinary  Persons  ;  whom  to 
know,  and  to  imitate  would  be  a  Benefit  to  our  Countrymen.  A 
Traveller  who  writes  in  that  Spirit  is  a  Merchant  of  a  nobler  kind, 


i 


RESIDEXCE  IN  ENGLAND.  221 

who  Imports  into  his  native  Country  the  Arts  and  Virtues  of  other 
Nations. 

"  I  will  leave  to  others  the  Care  of  describing  with  Accuracy  Paul's 
Church,  the  Monument,  Westminster,  Stonehenge,  etc.  I  consider 
England  in  another  view  ;  it  strikes  my  Eyes,  as  it  is  the  Land  which 
hath  produced  a  Newton,  a  Locke,  a  Tillotson,  a  IMilton,  a  Boyle  ; 
and  many  great  Men,  either  dead  or  alive,  whose  Glory  in  War,  in 
State-Affairs,  or  in  Letters,  will  not  be  confined  to  the  Bounds  of  tliis 
Island. 

'*  Whoever  had  the  Honour  and  Happiness  to  be  acquainted  with 
any  of  them,  and  will  do  me  the  favour  to  let  me  know  some  notable 
(tho'  perhaps  not  enough  known)  Passages  of  their  Lives,  will  confer 
ail  Obligation,  not  only  upon  me,  but  upon  the  Publick. 

"  Likewise  if  there  are  any  new  Inventions  or  Undertakings  which 
have  obtained  or  deserved  Success,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  those  who 
will  be  so  kind  as  to  give  me  any  Information  of  that  Nature :  and 
shall  either  quote  my  Authors  or  observe  a  religious  Silence,  accord- 
ing as  they  think  proper. 

"As  to  this  present  Essay,  it  is  intended  as  a  kind  of  Preface  or 
Introduction  to  the  Henriade  ;  the  Octavo  P^dition  whereof  is  sold  by 
N.  Prevost ;  as  also  the  French  Tragedy  of  Brutus." 

The  volume  attracted  much  attention,  and  reached  a  fourth 
edition.  The  "  Essay  upon  Epic  Poetry  "  is  agreeable  and  sug- 
gestive reading  even  at  this  day.  The  passage  upon  Shake- 
speare, quoted  above  from  the  French  translation,  gives  an  idea 
of  its  manner.  The  library  of  the  British  Museum  contains  a 
copy  of  the  fourth  edition  of  the  work,  published  in  1731,  cor- 
rected by  the  author :  "  to  which  is  prefixed  '  a  discourse  on 
tragedy,  with  reflections  on  the  English  and  French  drama.' 
Bound  with  this  copy  is  a  critical  pamphlet  of  eighty-one 
pages,  entitled,  '  Remarks  on  j\L  Voltaire's  Essay  upon  Epick 
Poetry,  by  Paul  Rolli.  London,  1728,'  "  in  which  Milton  is 
defended  against  Voltaire's  censure.  In  the  "  Discourse  on 
Tragedy,"  Voltaire  addresses  Lord  Bolingbroke  :  — 

"  Your  Lordship  knows  that  the  tragedy  of  Brutus  was  struck  off 
in  Great  Britain.  You  may  remember  that  whilst  I  was  in  Wands- 
worth, with  my  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Faulkner,  I  amused  myself  with 
writing  the  first  act  of  the  following  tragedy  in  English  prose,  which 
I  have  since  worked  up  in  French  verse,  with  little  alteration.  I 
used  to  mention  it  to  you  sometimes,  and  we  both  wondered  that  no 
English  poet  had  yet  attempted  to  raise  a  tragedy  upon  this  subject, 


222  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

which,  of  all  others,  is  perhaps  adapted  to  the  English  stage.  Your 
Lordship  prompted  me  to  finish  a  dramatic  piece  susceptible  of  such 
exalted  sentiments. 

"  Permit  me,  therefore,  to  present  you  with  Brutus,  though  written 
in  French. 

"  At  my  return  from  England,  when  I  had  closely  studied  the  Eng- 
lish language  for  two  years  put  together,  't  was  with  some  diffidence 
that  I  attempted  to  write  a  tragedy  in  French.  I  had  almost  accus- 
tomed myself  to  think  in  English,  and  I  found  that  the  expressions  of 
my  own  tongue  were  not  now  so  familiar  to  me  ;  't  was  like  a  river 
whose  course  having  been  diverted,  both  time  and  pains  were  re- 
quired to  bring  it  back  to  its  own  bed." 

The  Essays  promoted,  doubtless,  the  subscriptions  to  "  La 
Henriade."  What,  indeed,  could  have  advertised  it  better? 
The  English  quarto  edition  of  that  poem,  announced  in  1726, 
price  one  guinea,  was  not  ready  till  1728,  and  dui'ing  the  in- 
terval the  author  lent  his  personal  energy  and  tact  to  the 
work  of  getting  subscriptions,  not  disdaining  to  solicit  liter- 
ary friends  to  hand  the  proposals  about  their  circle.  The 
copperplates  engraved  in  Paris,  and  used  in  the  Rouen  edi- 
tion, were  made  to  do  duty  a  second  time.  The  volume  was 
a  handsome,  gilt-edged  quarto,  of  202  pages,  in  large  type, 
with  ample  margin,  and  but  twenty-two  lines  on  a  page.  It 
was  announced  as  "  the  first  edition  published  with  the 
author's  sanction."  Queen  Caroline,  who  came  to  the  throne 
in  June,  1727,  with  her  husband,  George  II.,  was  then  one  of 
the  most  popular  princesses  in  Europe,  and  to  her  Voltaire  re- 
dedicated  his  poem.  As  Princess  of  Wales,  she  had  been 
much  the  friend  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  a  fact  of  which  the 
author  of  the  dedication  was  doubtless  aware. 

"To  THE  Qdeen. 

"  Madam  :  —  It  was  the  fate  of  Henry  the  Fourth  to  be  protected 
by  an  English  queen.  He  was  assisted  by  the  great  Elizabeth,  who 
was  in  her  age  the  glory  of  her  sex.  By  whom  can  his  memory  be 
80  well  protected  as  by  her  who  resembles  so  much  Elizabeth  in  her 
personal  virtues  ? 

"  Your  Majesty  wUl  find  in  this  book  bold,  impartial  truths ;  mo- 
rality unstained  with  superstition ;  a  spirit  of  liberty,  equally  abhor- 
rent of  rebellion  and  of  tyranny  ;  the  rights  of  kings  always  asserted, 
and  those  of  mankind  never  laid  aside. 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENGLAND.  223 

"The  same  spirit  in  which  it  is  written  gave  me  the  confidence 
to  offer  it  to  the  virtuous  consort  of  a  king  who,  among  so  many 
crowned  heads,  enjoys  almost  the  inestimable  honor  of  ruling  a  free 
nation  ;  a  king  who  makes  his  power  consist  in  being  beloved,  and  his 
glory  in  being  just. 

"  Our  Descartes,  who  was  the  greatest  philosopher  in  Europe  be- 
fore Sir  Isaac  Newton  appeared,  dedicated  his  '  Principles '  to  the 
celebrated  Princess  Palatine  Elizabeth ;  not,  said  he,  because  she  was 
a  princess  (for  true  philosophers  respect  princes,  and  never  flatter 
them)  ;  but  because  of  all  his  readers  she  understood  him  the  best, 
and  loved  truth  the  most. 

"  I  beg  leave,  Madam  (without  comparing  myself  to  Descartes) 
to  dedicate  '  The  Henriade  '  to  your  Majesty  upon  the  like  account, 
not  only  as  the  protectress  of  all  arts  and  sciences,  but  as  the  best 
judge  of  them. 

"  I  am,  with  that  profound  respect  which  is  due  to  the  greatest  vir- 
tue as  well  as  the  highest  rank,  may  it  please  your  Majesty,  your 
Majesty's  most  humble,  most  dutiful,  and  most  obliged  servant, 

"  Voltaire." 

The  volume  had  all  the  success  possible  to  a  work  written 
in  a  foreign  language.  The  number  of  guinea  subscribers  was 
probably  about  fifteen  hundred,  and  three  octavo  editions  of 
the  poem  were  also  sold  by  booksellers  about  as  fast  as  the 
books  could  be  made.  Eighty  copies  were  subscribed  for  in 
France,  where,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  degenerate  Sully  perceived 
that  the  name  of  his  great  ancestor  was  taken  out  of  the  jDoem. 
The  queen  courteously  acknowledged  the  honor  j^aid  her  in  the 
dedication,  and  King  George  II.,  as  the  custom  was,  sent  the 
author  a  present  of  two  thousand  crowns.  Voltaire  himself 
mentions  this  pleasing  event,  but  without  telling  us  the  value 
of  the  coins  {Scuts),  so  named.  If  he  meant  English  crowns, 
the  present  was  the  liberal  one  of  five  hundi'ed  pounds  sterling. 
The  fibbing  Goldsmith  declares  that  Queen  Caroline  sent  the 
French  poet  two  hundred  pounds  and  her  portrait.  The 
Queen  of  Prussia,  then  in  full  intrigue  to  marry  her  daugliter 
to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  her  son,  Frederic,  to  an  English 
pi'incess,  sent  Voltaire  a  medal  bearing,  as  it  seems,  the  Queen 
of  England's  portrait.  In  his  letter  of  acknowledgment  to 
the  Prussian  minister,  he  says  he  shall  keep  the  medal  all  his 
life,  because  it  came  to  him  from  so  great  a  queen,  and  be- 
cause it  represented  the  Queen  of  England,  who,  by  her  vir- 


'  r^ 


224  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

tues  and  great  qualities  called  to  mind  the  Queen  of  Prussia. 
Prince  Frederic  of  Prussia  was  then  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and 
in  favor  with  his  mother.  Probably  he  read  this  letter,,  as 
well  as  the  volume  that  went  with  it.  He  may  have  noticed 
the  concludinfif  sentence  of  the  letter  :  "  The  noblest  recom- 
pense  of  my  labor  is  to  find  favor  with  such  queens  as  yours, 
and  to  be  valued  by  such  readers  as  you  ;  for,  in  matters  of 
taste  and  science,  it  is  not  necessary  to  make  any  distinction 
between  crowned  heads  and  private  persons."  ^ 

The  pecuniary  result  of  this  London  "  Henriade  "  has  been 
usually  overstated.  M.  Nicolardot,  who  has  minutely  investi- 
gated the  subject,  goes,  perhaps,  too  far  the  other  way,  in 
estimating  the  Avliole  profit  of  the  two  London  editions  of 
the  poem  at  ten  thousand  francs."  I  think  it  probable  that 
the  proceeds  of  the  quarto  edition,  the  octavo  edition,  the 
Essays  preliminary,  and  "  Brutus,"  with  the  gifts  of  king  and 
queen,  may  have  reached  two  thousand  pounds  sterling.  It 
was  a  large  sum  for  a  man  who  spent  little,  and  was  well 
skilled  in  the  art  of  investing  mone3\  During  his  stay  in 
England  Pope  gained  six  thousand  pounds  by  his  translation 
of  Homer,  and  Gay  three  thousand  by  his  "  Beggars'  Opera;  " 
but  Dryden  only  received,  as  Pope  said,  twelve  hundred 
pounds  for  his  "  Virgil,"  sixpence  a  line  for  his  "  Fables,"  ten 
"  broad  pieces "  for  a  play,  and  fifty  more  for  the  acting. 
Thomson's  "  Spring "  brought  the  author  fifty  guineas ; 
Young's  "Night  Thoughts,"  two  hundred  and  fifty;  and 
Akenside's  "  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,"  one  hundred  and 
twenty.  This  stranger,  therefore,  may  be  considered  to  have 
done  very  well  to  get  so  much  for  the  reprint  of  a  poem  in  a 
foreign  language.  And  during  his  residence  of  nearly  three 
years,  how  much  did  he  spend  ?  Perhaps  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  in  all,  while  his  revenues  from  France,  without  reck- 
oning his  suspended  pensions,  could  not  have  been  less  than 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year. 
,f  He  labored  without  pause.  His  "  Charles  XII."  grew  under 
1  his  hands.  His  work  upon  England  was  in  preparation,  for 
it  was  never  the  way  of  this  indefatigable  spirit  to  finish  one 
piece  of  work  before  beginning  another.     Of  all  his  writings 

1  Voltaire  k  Ferney,  page  312. 

2  Menage  et  Finances  de  Voltaire,  page  40. 


^ 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENOLAND.  225 

the  one  most  influential  upon  French  minds  was  his  Letters 
upon  Enn^land  ;   for  they  revealed  to  France  the  bewitching 
spectacle    of   a    free    country,  and    renewed    the    fascinating 
tradition    of   republican  Rome    learned  at  school.     Lafayette 
records  that  it  was  reading  these  "  Lettres  Philosophiques," 
as  they  were  entitled,  that  made  him  a  republican  at  nine  ; 
and    J.  J.  Rousseau  attributes    in    great    part    to    them    the 
awakening  of  his  late-maturing  intelligence.     It  was  a    little 
book,  almost    forgotten  now,  merely  a    traveler's    brief    and 
pleasant  chat  respecting    things  and   men  of  a  foreign  land. 
But    the  world    is    governed    by  a  few  little   books.      It    is 
retarded  and    borne    onward    by   little    books.       When    the 
French  Revolution    shall    be  at    length    interpreted,    in    the 
first  chapter  of  the  work  will  be  an  account  of  this  brio-ht.  in- 
cisive,  saucy,  artless,  artful   little  book,  which  revealed  free_ 
England    to  bound   France.     It  led  straight  to  '89.     It  was 
not  necessar}^  as  the  wicked  Heine  remarks,  for  the  censor 
to  condemn  this  book ;  it  would  have  been  read  without  that. 
Voltaire  may  have  heard  at  Lord  Bolingbroke's  house  the 
anecdote  recorded    by  Spence    of    Robert    Hooke,  who    said 
there  were  three  reasons  for  preferring  to  live  in   Eno-land  : 
The  first  was  liberty,  the  second  was  liberty,  and  the  third 
was    liberty.     Above  all    things  else    in    England,  this  exile 
loved  the  freedom  and  toleration  that  prevailed  there,  "  the 
noble  liberty  of  thinking,"  to  which  he  attributed  whatever 
he  found  most  excellent  in  English  politics,  science,  and  lit- 
erature.    To  this  freedom,  also,  he  attributed    the  compara-  .      c  ' 
tive  exemption    of     England    fi-om    religious    antipathies.     It    .     •  ^t 
was  freedom,  he    thought,  that    enabled    the  numerous  sects  .,  ^^^.-^    '*^. 
to  live  together  in  harmony.     "  Enter  the  London  Exchange," 
he    remarks,  "a    place  more  respectable    than    many  courts. 
There  you  see    the  representatives  of    all  nations  assembled 
for    a    useful    purpose.       There    the    Jew,    the    Mahometan, 
and  the   Christian  treat  one   another  as  if  they  were  of  the 
same  religion,  and    give  the  name  of    infidel    only  to  bank- 
rupts.      There  the  Presbyterian  trusts    the  Anabaptist,  and 
the  Church-of-England    man    takes    the  word    of    a  Quaker. 
On  leaving  this  peaceful  and  free  assembly,  some  go  to  the 
synagogue,  others  go  to  drink ;  this  man  proceeds  to  be   bap- 
tized in  a  great  tub  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 

VOL.  I.  15 


^ 


226  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

the  Holy  Ghost ;  that  man  circumcises  his  son,  and  causes  to 
be  muttered  over  the  child  Hebrew  words  which  are  quite 
unintelligible  to  him ;  others  go  to  their  churches  to  await  the 
insjDiration  of  God  with  their  hats  on  ;  all  are  content.  If 
there  was  in  England  but  one  religion,  its  despotic  sway  were 
to  be  feared ;  if  there  were  but  two,  they  would  cut  one  an- 
other's throats ;  but  as  there  are  thirty,  they  live  in  peace  and 
are  happy." 

The  Quakers,  who  were  still  a  novelty  in  England  to 
foreigners,  attracted  the  particular  attention  of  this  most  un- 
quakerlike  of  men.  He  knew  his  public,  being  himself  a 
member  of  it,  and  he  therefore  gave  four  letters  upon  the 
Quakers.  Believing,  as  he  says,  that  the  doctrines  and  his- 
tory of  so  extraordinary  a  'peojDle  merited  the  study  of  an 
intelligent  man,  he  sought  the  society  of  one  of  the  most  fa- 
mous Quakers  in  England,  a  retired  merchant,  who  lived  in  a 
cottage  near  London,  "  well  built,  and  adorned  only  with  its 
own  neatness."  The  curious  stranger  visited  him  in  his  re- 
treat. 

*•  The  Quaker  was  an  old  man  of  ;fresh  complexion,  who  had 
never  been  sick,  because  he  always  had  been  continent  and  tem- 
perate. In  my  life  I  have  never  seen  a  presence  more  noble  nor 
more  engaging  than  his.  He  was  dressed,  like  all  those  of  his  per- 
suasion, in  a  coat  without  plaits  at  the  sides,  or  buttons  on  the  pock- 
ets and  sleeves,  and  wore  a  broad-brimmed  hat  like  those  of  our 
ecclesiastics.  He  received  me  with  his  hat  on,  and  advanced  to- 
wards me  without  making  the  least  inclination  of  his  body  ;  but 
there  was  more  politeness  in  the  open  and  humane  expression  of 
his  countenance  than  there  is  in  the  custom  of  drawing  one  leg 
behind  the  other,  and  in  that  of  carrying  in  the  hand  what  was 
made  to  cover  the  head.  '  Friend,'  said  he  to  me,  *  I  see  that  thou 
art  a  stranger  ;  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  thee,  thou  hast  only  to 
speak.'  '  Sir,'  said  I  to  him,  with  a  bow  and  a  step  forward,  accord- 
ing to  our  custom,  '  I  flatter  myself  that  my  reasonable  curiosity 
wUl  not  displease  you,  and  that  you  will  be  willing  to  do  me  the 
honor  to  instruct  me  in  your  religion.'  '  The  people  of  thy  coun- 
try,' he  replied,  '  make  too  many  compliments  and  bows,  but  I  have 
never  before  seen  one  of  them  who  had  the  same  curiosity  as  thou. 
Come  in  and  take  dinner  with  me.'  I  still  kept  paying  him  bad 
compliments,  because  a  man  cannot  all  at  once  lay  aside  his  habits ; 
and,  after  a  wholesome  and    frugal  repast,  which  began  and  ended 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENGLAND.  227 

with  a  prayer  to  God,  I  began  to  question  my  host.  I  began  with 
the  question  which  good  Catholics  have  put  more  than  once  to  the 
Huguenots  :  '  My  dear  sir,'  said  I,  '  have  you  been  baptized  ? '  '  No,' 
replied  the  Quaker,  '  nor  my  brethren  either.'  '  How !  Morhleu  ! 
You  are  not  Christians,  then?'  'My  friend,'  he  mildly  rejoined. 
'  swear  not ;  we  do  not  think  that  Christianity  consists  in  sprinkling 
water  upon  the  head  with  a  little  salt.'  '  Heh,  hon  Dieu !  '  said  I, 
shocked  at  this  impiety ;  '  have  you  forgotten,  then,  that  Jesus 
Christ  was  baptized  by  John  ?  '  '  Friend,  once  more,  no  oaths,'  re- 
plied the  benign  Quaker.  '  Christ  received  baptism  from  John  ; 
but  he  baptized  no  one;  we  are  not  John's  disciples,  but  Christ's.' 
'  Ah,'  cried  I,  '  how  you  would  be  burned  by  the  Holy  Inquisition. 
In  the  name  of  God,  my  dear  man,  let  me  have  you  baptized!' 
.  .  .  .  '  Art  thou  circumcised .'' '  he  asked.  I  replied  that  I  had 
not  that  honor.  '  Very  well,  friend,'  said  he,  '  thou  art  a  Christian 
without  being  circumcised,  and  I  without  being  baptized.'" 

The  conversation  was  continued  to  great  length.  In  his 
report  of  it,  Voltaire  affects  throughout  the  tone  of  the 
good  Catholic,  —  Louis  XV.  being  then  King  of  France,  and 
Cardinal  de  Fleury  his  prime  minister.  He  adds  that  the 
benign  Quaker  conducted  him,  on  the  following  Sunday,  to  a 
Quaker  meeting,  where  he  heard  one  of  the  brethren  utter  a 
long,  nonsensical  harangue,  "  half  with  his  mouth,  half  with 
his  nose,"  of  which  no  one  understood  anything.  He  asked 
his  friend  why  they  permitted  such  silliness  (sottises).  The 
Quaker  answered  that  they  were  obliged  to  endure  it,  because 
they  could  not  know,  when  a  man  got  up  to  speak,  whether  he 
was  moved  by  the  Spirit  or  by  folly.  The  Quaker  meeting 
appears  to  have  effaced  the  good  impressions  of  the  sect  which 
he  had  derived  from  his  conversations  with  the  retired  mer- 
chant. Nevertheless,  he  proceeds  to  relate  the  history  of  the 
Quakers,  and  of  William  Penn.  He  concludes  by  remarking 
that  the  denomination,  though  flourishing  in  Pennsylvania, 
was  on  the  decline  in  England,  because  the  young  Quakers, 
enriched  by  their  fathers'  industry,  desired  to  enjoy  the  hon- 
ors of  public  office,  and  to  wear  fashionable  clothes,  and  to 
escape  the  reproach  of  belonging  to  a  sect  ridiculed  by  the 
world. 

In  his  remarks  upon  the  Church  of  England,  Voltaire  gives 
us  a  taste  of  his  veritable  self :  "  One  can  have  no  public  em- 


228  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

ployment  in  England,  or  Ireland,  without  being  of  the  number 
of  the  faithful  Anglicans ;  this  reason,  which  is  an  excellent 
proof,  has  converted   so   many  dissenters  that   to-day  not   a 
twentieth  part  of  the  nation  is  out  of  the  pale  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church."     "  The  lower  house  of  convocation  formerly 
enjoyed  some  credit;  at  least,  it  had  the  privilege  of  meeting, 
of  debating  controverted  points  of  doctrine,  and  of  burning, 
now  and  then,  some  impious  books,  that  is,  books  against  them- 
selves.     The  whig  ministry,  however,  does  not  even  permit 
those  gentlemen  to  assemble,  and  they  are  reduced,  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  their  parishes,  to  the  mournful  business  of  praying 
to  God  for  a  government  which  they  would  not  be  sorry  to  dis- 
turb."    "  The  priests  are  almost  all  married.     The  awkward- 
ness which  they  acquire  at  the  universities,  and  the  little  ac- 
quaintance they  have  here  with  women,  usually  has  the  effect 
of  obliging  a  bishop  to  be  contented  with  his  own  wife.     The 
priests  go  to  the  taverns  sometimes,  because  custom  permits 
it ;  and  if  they  get  drunk,  it  is  in  a  serious  way,  and  without 

scandal When    they  are    told    that   in  France   young 

men,  known  by  their  debaucheries  and  raised  to  the  rank  of 
bishop  by  female  intrigues,  openly  make  love,  amuse  them- 
selves by  composing  love  songs,  give  every  day  costly  and 
elaborate  suppers,  and  go  from  those  suppers  to  implore  the 
illumination  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  boldly  call  themselves  the 
successors  of  the  Apostles,  then  they  thank  God  that  they  are 
Protestants.  Nevertheless,  they  are  abominable  heretics,  fit  to 
be  burned  by  all  the  devils,  as  Rabelais  says  ;  and  that  is  the 
reason  M'hy  I  do  not  meddle  with  their  affairs." 

Upon  tiie  government  of  England  Voltaire  descants  in  a 
graver  strain.  He  failed  not  to  inform  his  countrymen  that 
in  Eno-land  no  tax  could  be  laid  except  with  the  consent  of  the 
king,  lords,  and  commons,  and  that  every  man  was  assessed, 
not  as  in  France  according  to  his  rank,  or  rather  according  to 
his  want  of  rank,  but  according  to  his  income.  Nor  did  he 
omit  to  remark  that  in  England  the  peasant's  feet  were  not 
blistered  by  wooden  shoes.  "  He  eats  white  bread  ;  he  is  well 
clad  ;  he  fears  not  to  increase  the  number  of  his  beasts,  nor  to 
cover  his  roof  with  tiles,  lest  he  should  have  to  pay  a  higher 
tax  the  next  year.  You  see  many  peasants  who  have  five  or  six 
hundred  pounds  sterling  a  year,  and  yet  do  not  disdain  to  con- 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENGLAND.  229 

tinue  to  cultivate  the  lands  that  have  enriched  them,  and  upon 
which  they  live  as  freemen."  He  observed  with  pleasure  that 
the  younger  sons  of  noble  families  frequently  entered  into 
commerce,  —  a  thing  unheard  of  then  in  France.  "I  know 
not,  however,"  he  slyly  remarks,  "  which  is  the  more  useful  to 
a  state,  a  well-powdered  lord,  who  knows  precisely  at  what 
hour  the  king  gets  up  and  goes  to  bed,  and  who  gives  himself 
airs  upon  playing  the  part  of  slave  in  a  minister's  ante-cham- 
ber, or  a  merchant  who  enriches  his  country,  who  from  his 
counting-room  sends  orders  to  Surat  and  Cairo,  and  contrib- 
utes to  the  happiness  of  mankind."  — 

Of  the  philosophers  of  England,  Locke  and  Newton  were 
those  whom  he  studied  longest  and  admired  most.  He  was  one 
of  the  first  of  his  countrymen  who  understood  the  discoveries 
of  Newton,  and  it  was  he  who  made  them  popularly  known 
to  France.  Locke  he  frequently  styles  the  wisest  of  human 
beings,  and  the  only  man  who  had  ever  Avritten  worthily  upon 
metaphysics.  Lord  Bacon,  he  thought,  "knew  not  Nature, 
but  he  knew  and  pointed  out  all  the  paths  that  lead  to  a 
knowledge  of  her."  "He  despised,  early  in  his  career,  that 
which  fools  in  square  caps  taught  under  the  name  of  philoso- 
phy, in  those  mad-houses  called  colleges  ;  and  he  did  all  that 
he  could  to  keep  them  from  continuing  to  confuse  the  mind  by 
their  nature  ahliorring  a  vacuum,  their  substantial  forins,  and 
all  those  words  which  not  only  ignorance  rendered  respectable^ 
but  which  a  ridiculous  blending  with  religion  rendered  sacred. 
He  is  the  father  of  experimental  philosophy."  All  of  Vol- 
taire's remarks  upon  Bacon,  Locke,  and  Newton  show  that  he 
felt  the  peculiar  importance  of  each  of  them. 

Shakespeare,  as  we  have  seen,  he  could  not  judge  aright. 
He  never  could.  Duels,  the  first  author  who  "  adapted  "  Shake- 
speare to  the  French  stage,  was  misled  by  Voltaire's  estimate, 
as  given  in  the  Letters;  and,  indeed,  it  is  only  in  our  own 
time  that  France  has  come  to  the  full  possession  and  enjoy- 
ment of  Shakespeare.  For  a  century.  Frenchmen  generally 
accepted  Voltaire's  judgment.  "  Shakespeare,"  he  told  his 
countrymen,  "  created  the  English  theatre.  He  had  a  genius 
full  of  force  and  fecundity,  of  nature  and  sublimity  ;  but  with- 
out the  least  spark  of  good  taste,  and  without  the  slightest 
knowdedge  of  the  rules.     I  am  going  to  say  something  bold, 


230  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

but  true  :  it  is,  that  the  merit  of  this  author  has  ruined  the 
English  drama.  There  are  such  beautifid  scenes,  there  are 
passages  so  grand  and  so  terrible  in  those  monstrous  farces 
which  they  call  tragedies,  that  his  pieces  have  always  been 
played  with  great  success.  Time,  which  alone  gives  reputa- 
tion to  men,  renders  at  length  their  faults  respectable.  Most 
of  the  odd  and  gigantesque  notions  of  this  author  have  ac- 
quired, at  the  end  of  two  hundred  years,  the  right  to  pass  for 
sublime.  Modern  authors  have  almost  all  copied  them  ;  but 
that  which  succeeded  m  Shakespeare  is  hissed  in  them."  He 
proceeds  to  remark  that  England  has  produced  but  one  trag- 
edy worthy  to  be  ranked  with  the  master-pieces  of  the  French 
stage,  and  that  was  Addison's  "  Cato."  The  writings  of  Vol- 
taire contain,  perhaps,  a  hundred  allusions  to^^hakespeare, 
but  most  of  them  in  this  tone  ;  and  in  almost  the  last  piece  he 
ever  wrote,  he  still  speaks  of  him  as  an  inspired  barbarian. 
In  one  of  his  essays,  in  1761,  after  giving  a  ludicrous  outline 
of  "  Hamlet,"  he  enters  into  an  inquiry  how  it  could  be  that  a 
nation  which  had  produced  the  "Cato"  of  Addison  could  en- 
dure such  crudities.  This  is  his  reason  :  "  The  chairmen,  the 
sailors,  the  hackney-coachmen,  the  shopmen,  the  butchers,  and 
even  the  clergy,  in  England,  are  passionately  fond  of  shows. 
Give  them  coek-fights,  bull-fights,  gladiatorial  combats,  funer- 
als, witchcraft,  duels,  hangings,  ghosts,  and  they  run  in  throngs 
to  see  them ;  and  there  is  more  than  one  lord  as  curious  in 
these  things  as  the  populace.  The  people  of  London  find  in 
the  tragedies  of  Shakes^jeare  all  that  can  please  such  a  taste 
as  this.     The  courtiers  were  obliged  to  follow  the  torrent." 

Two  or  three  considerations  may  lessen  our  astonishment  at 
Voltaire's  blindness  to  Shakespeare.  One  is  that  he  spoke  of 
Shakespeare  very  much  as  the  great  lights  of  English  litei-a- 
ture,  from  Dryden  to  Goldsmith,  were  accustomed  to  speak  of 
him.  Dryden  styled  "Troilus  and  Cressida"  "  a  heap  of  rub- 
bish." Dryden  thought  he  had  converted  the  "  Tempest " 
into  a  tolerable  play  when  he  had  spoiled  it.  Pope  spoke  of 
a  forgotten  play  of  the  Earl  of  Dorset's  as  "  written  in  a  much 
purer  style  than  Shakespeare's  in  his  first  plays."  Boling- 
broke,  as  Voltaire  mentions,  agreed  with  him  upon  the  irregu- 
larities of  .Shakespeare.  Goldsmith  speaks  of  the  "  amazing, 
irregular  beauties  of  Shakespeare."     When  George  III.  said 


RESIDENCE  IN  ENGLAND.  231 

to  Miss  Burney  that  most  of  Shakespeare  was  "sad  stuff," 
he  probably  expressed  an  opinion  that  prevailed  in  the  higher 
circles  of  his  time.  There  is  reason  to  conclude  that,  when 
Voltaire's  Letters  upon  the  English  appeared  in  London,  his 
remarks  upon  Shakespeare  were  approved  by  the  frequent- 
ers of  such  houses  as  those  of  Bolingbroke,  Dodington,  and 
Pope. 

The  customs  of  the  French  stage,  in  Voltaire's  day,  furnish 
some  furtlier  explanation  of  his  insensibility  to  Shakespeare. 
The  tragic  drama  in  France  was  a  kind  of  drawing-room  pas- 
time,—  decorous,  artificial,  high-flown.  The  common  people 
attended  the  theatre  only  on  festive  days,  when  free  admissions 
were  given.  To  have  introduced  into  a  play  the  name  of  a 
prince  of  the  reigning  family  would  have  been  deemed  a  very 
great  audacity.  No  author  presumed  to  do  it  till  Voltaire, 
emboldened,  as  he  says,  by  Shakespeare's  example,  brought 
upon  the  scene  characters  famous  in  the  history  of  France. 
At  the  same  time,  it  was  against  the  "  rules "  to  present  to 
the  courtly  audiences  of  that  day  peasants,  mechanics,  or  any 
plebeian  except  a  soldier,  a  valet  de  chambre^  or  a  waiting- 
maid.  No  one  could  kill  another  on  the  stage.  The  only 
killing  permitted  was  decorous  and  classical  suicide.  The  en- 
tire action  of  the  play  was  required  to  be  exhibited  in  the 
same  apartment,  and  in  the  space  of  time  occupied  in  its  rep- 
resentation. Subject  to  these  rules,  —  subject,  also,  to  the 
restraints  of  rhyme,  —  what  could  a  French  tragedy  be  but  a 
series  of  stately  dialogues?  Accustomed  to  such  a  drama  as 
this,  Voltaire  was  shocked  at  scenes  like  those  of  the  grave- 
diggers  in  "  Hamlet,"  the  fool  in  "  Lear,"  the  cobblers  in  "  Ju- 
lius Csesar."  When  his  "  Tancrede  "  was  performed,  in  1760, 
the  leading  actress  implored  his  consent  to  the  erection  of  a  scaf- 
fold upon  the  stage,  draped  in  black.  "  My  friend,"  he  replied, 
"  we  must  fight  the  English,  not  imitate  their  barbarous  thea- 
tre. Let  us  study  their  philosophy ;  let  us  trample  under  our 
feet,  as  they  do,  infamous  prejudices  ;  let  us  drive  out  the 
Jesuits  and  wolves ;  let  us  no  longer  stupidly  oppose  inocula- 
tion and  the  attraction  of  gravitation  ;  let  us  learn  from  them 
how  to  cultivate  land;  but  let  us  beware  of  copying  their  sav- 
age drama."  Moreover,  his  self-love  was  interested.  If  Shake- 
speare was  right,  Voltaire  was  wrong.  If  "Hamlet"  was  a 
good  tragedy,  what  was  "  Q^dipe  "? 


232  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

He  succeeded  little  better  with  Milton.  In  many  passages 
of  bis  works  be  ridicules  tbe  "  odd  and  extravagant  concep- 
tions "  of  tbat  poet,  to  whose  merit,  however,  be  was  not 
wholly  insensible.  "  Paradise  Lost,"  he  concludes,  "  is  a  work 
more  peculiar  than  natural,  fuller  of  imagination  than  of  grace, 
and  of  boldness  than  judgment ;  of  which  the  subject  is  wholly 
ideal,  and  which  seems  not  made  for  man."  He  admired  the 
"  majestic  strokes  with  which  Milton  dared  to  depict  God,  and 
the  character  still  more  brilliant  which  he  gives  the  Devil." 
The  description  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  pleased  him,  as  well  as 
the  "innocent  loves  of  Adam  and  Eve."  But  w^hen  he  comes 
to  speak  of  the  combats  between  the  angels  and  the  fallen 
sj)irits,  of  the  mountains  hurled  upon  each  other,  and  of  the 
great  gathering  of  the  devils  in  a  hall,  he  can  see  in  those  pas- 
sages only  something  barbaric  and  ludicrous.  Milton,  he  re- 
marks, was  a  bad  prose-writer,  and  combated  the  apologists 
of  King  Charles  as  a  ferocious  beast  fights  a  savage.  In  all 
that  he  says  of  Milton,  we  perceive  the  influence  of  the  Eng- 
lish circle  which  he  frequented.  So  Bolingbroke  spoke  of  the 
author  of  "  Paradise  Lost." 

It  was  during  Voltaire's  stay  in  England  that  news  was 
brought  to  the  literary  circle  that  a  daughter  of  Milton  was 
living  in  London,  old,  infirm,  and  very  poor.  "  In  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,"  he  tells  us,  "she  was  rich."  He  thought  of  this 
incident,  tliirty-five  years  later,  when  he  was  soliciting  sub- 
scriptions for  the  edition  of  Corneille  which  he  published  for 
the  benefit  of  the  granddaughter  of  that  poet,  whom  he  had 
adopted  and  was  educating.  He  used  it  as  a  spur  to  the  zeal 
of  those  who  were  aiding  him.  ]\Iilton's  daughter  died  soon 
after,  but  not  before  she  had  related  many  particulars  of  her 
father's  life  and  habits,  which  Voltaire  eagerly  gathered  and 
afterwards  recorded. 

The  English  comedy  of  that  time  appears  to  have  afforded 
the  stranger  much  enjoyment.  He  complains,  however,  of  the 
indecency  of  the  pojjular  comedies.  But  he  appears  to  have 
been  shocked  only  at  the  indecency  of  the  words  employed, 
not  at  all  at  the  enormous  and  hideous  indecency  of  the  events 
exhibited.  "  We  are  bound  to  consider,"  he  remarks,  "that, 
if  the  Romans  permitted  gross  expressions  in  the  satires  which 
only  a  few  people  read,  they  allowed  no  improper  words  upon 


RESIDENCE  IN  ENGLAND.  233 

the  stage.  For,  as  La  Fontaine  says,  '  Chaste  are  the  ears, 
though  the  eyes  be  loose.'  In  a  word,  no  one  should  pro- 
nounce in  public  a  word  which  a  modest  woman  may  not  re- 
peat." Here  we  have  the  explanation  of  the  fact  that  an  Eng- 
lishman in  Paris  and  a  Frenchman  in  London  are  equally 
astounded  at  the  indecency  of  the  plays  which  they  attend. 
The  Frenchman  brings  to  the  theatre  fastidious  ears,  and  the 
Englishman  chaste  eyes.  The  third  and  fourth  acts  of  "  Tar- 
tuffe  "  contain  nothing  offensive  to  a  French  audience,  though 
it  would  be  shocked  at  some  of  the  words  in  the  first  act  of 
Othello.  An  Englishwoman  can  endure  a  gross  word  or  two 
in  the  midst  of  a  scene  otherwise  proper,  but  would  be  in- 
clined to  run  out  of  the  theatre  upon  the  performance  of  a 
whole  act  of  decorous  seduction  which  threatens  at  every  mo- 
ment to  be  successful ;  the  husband  of  the  lady  being  hidden 
under  the  table,  and  appearing  only  when  the  author  has  ex- 
hausted every  other  resource. 

Apropos  of  "  Tartuffe,"  Voltaire  gives  an  unexpected  rea- 
son for  the  failure  in  England  of  a  comedy  which  has  given  to 
the  English  stage  so  many  of  its  religious  hypocrites,  and  to  ' 
Dickens  perhaps  his  Uriah  Heep.  He  says  that  before  there 
can  be  false  devotees  there  must  be  true  ones  ;  and  one  of  the 
great  advantages  of  the  English  nation  is  that  it  has  no  Tar- 
tuffes.  "  The  English  scarcely  know  the  name  of  devotee ; 
but  thev  know  well  that  of  honest  man.  You  do  not  see  there 
any  imbeciles  who  put  their  souls  into  the  keeping  of  others, 
nor  any  of  those  petty  ambitious  men  who  establish  in  a  neigh- 
borhood a  despotic  sway  over  silly  women  formerly  wanton 
and  always  weak,  and  over  men  weaker  and  more  contempti- 
ble than  they." 

Voltaire  concludes  his  review  of  English  literature  by  re- 
marking, that,  as  the  English  had  profited  much  from  works 
in  tlie  French  language,  so  the  French,  in  their  turn,  ought  to 
borrow  from  them.  "  We  have  both,"  he  adds,  "  we  and  the 
English,  followed  the  Italians,  who  are  in  everything  our  mas- 
ters, and  whom  we  have  surpassed  in  some  things.  I  know 
not  to  which  of  the  three  nations  we  ought  to  give  the  prefer- 
ence ;  but  happy  he  who  knows  how  to  enjoy  tlieir  different 
merits."  In  one  particular,  however,  he  awards  the  palm  to 
England  :   England  honored  literature  and  learning  most.     In 


234  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

France,  lie  says,  Addison  might  have  been  member  of  the 
Academy,  and  might  have  obtained  a  pension  by  the  influence 
of  a  woman  ;  or  he  might  have  been  brought  into  trouble 
under  the  pretext  that  there  might  be  found  m  his  "  Cato " 
some  reflections  upon  the  porter  of  a  man  in  power.  In  Eng- 
land, he  was  secretary  of  state  ;  Newton  was  master  of  the 
Mint ;  Congreve  held  an  important  office ;  Prior  was  plenipo- 
tentiary ;  Swift  was  dean  in  Ireland,  and  much  more  consid- 
ered there  than  the  primate  ;  and  if  Pope's  religion  kept  him 
out  of  office,  it  did  not  prevent  his  gaining  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  by  his  translation  of  Homer.  "  What  encourages 
most  the  men  of  letters  in  England  is  the  consideration  in 
which  they  are  held.  The  portrait  of  the  prime  minister  is 
to  be  found  hanging  above  the  mantel-piece  of  his  own  study; 
but  I  have  seen  that  of  Mr.  Pope  in  twenty  houses." 

Pope's  position  in  the  world  of  letters  in  1728,  the  year 
of  the  "Dunciad,"  was  indeed  most  brilliant;  and  I  may 
almost  add,  terrible  ;  for  the  man  who  can  destroy  a  career 
or  brand  a  name  by  a  couplet,  wields  a  terrible  power.  Vol- 
taire marked  the  "  Dunciad  "  well,  and  treasured  up  the  hint  it 
gave  him.  He  could  not  issue  lettres  de  cachet^  but  he  saw 
Pope  wreak  a  deadlier  revenge  upon  his  foes  than  ministers 
and  mistresses  did  when  they  consigned  men  to  the  Bastille. 
He  watched  the  career  of  Pope  after  he  left  England,  and 
kept  his  notice  of  him  in  the  Letters  written  up  to  the  date 
of  later  editions. 

"  Pope  [he  wrote]  is,  I  believe,  the  most  elegant,  the  most  correct, 
the  most  harmonious  poet  whom  the  English  have  possessed.  He 
has  reduced  the  sharp  notes  of  the  English  trumpet  to  the  soft  tones 
of  the  flute.  It  is  possible  to  translate  him  because  he  is  extremely 
clear,  and  because  his  subjects  for  the  most  part  are  such  as  interest 

all   mankind Pope's  '  Essay  ou    Man  '  appears  to  me   to    be 

the  most  beautiful  didactic  poem,  the  most  useful,  the  most  sublime, 
that  has  ever  been  written  in  any  language.  It  is  true,  the  basis  of 
the  work  is  found  entire  in  the  '  Characteristics  of  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury,' and  1  do  not  know  why  M.  Pope  gives  credit  only  to  M.  de 
Bolingbroke,  without  sajdng  a  word  of  the  celebrated  Shaftesbury, 
pupil  of  Locke.  As  everything  appertaining  to  metaphysics  has 
been  thought  in  all  the  ages  and  by  every  people  who  have  culti- 
vated their  minds,  this  system  much  resembles  that  of  Leibnitz,  who 


I 


RESIDENCE   IN  ENGLAND.  235 

maintains  that  of  all  possible  worlds  God  was  bound  to  choose  the 
best,  and  that  in  this  best  it  was  very  necessary  that  the  irregularities 
of  our  globe  and  the  follies  of  its  inhabitants  should  have  their  place. 
It  resembles  also  the  idea  of  Plato,  that,  in  the  endless  chain  of 
beings,  our  earth,  our  body,  our  soul,  are  in  the  number  of  necessary 
links.  But  neither  Leibnitz  nor  Pope  admits  the  changes  which 
Plato  imagines  to  have  happened  to  those  links  —  to  our  souls  and 
to  our  bodies.  Plato  spoke  like  a  poet  in  his  scarcely  intellio-ible 
prose,  and  Pope  speaks  like  a  philosopher  in  his  admirable  verses. 
He  says  that  from  the  beginning  everything  was  as  it  ought  to  be. 

"  I  was  flattered,  I  confess  it,  that  he  coincides  with  me  in  some- 
thing which  I  wrote  several  years  ago  :  '  You  are  astonished  that 
God  has  made  man  so  limited,  so  ignorant,  so  little  happy.  Why 
are  you  not  astonished  that  he  did  not  make  him  more  limited, 
more  ignorant,  more  unhappy  ?  '  When  a  Frenchman  and  an  English- 
man think  the  same  thing,  they  certainly  must  be  right." 

He  mentions  in  this  connection  that  Pope  could  not  con- 
verse with  him  in  the  French  language,  though  Racine  the 
younger  had  published  a  French  letter  horn  Pope.  "  I 
know,"  he  saj's,  "and  all  the  men  of  letters  in  England 
know,  that  Pope,  with  whom  I  lived  a  good  deal  in  England, 
could  scarcely  read  French,  that  he  spoke  not  one  word  of 
our  tongue,  that  he  never  wrote  a  letter  in  French,  that  he 
was  incapable  of  doing  it,  and  that,  if  he  wrote  that  letter 
to  the  son  of  our  Racine,  God,  toward  the  end  of  his  life, 
must  suddenly  have  bestowed  upon  him  the  gift  of  tongues, 
to  reward  him  for  having  composed  so  admirable  a  work  as 
the  'Essay  on  Man.'  " 

So  passed  his  exile  in  England.  So  our  student  used  his 
university.  The  rSgime  had  better  kept  him  at  home ;  but, 
since  it  did  not,  he  made  the  best  and  the  most  of  the  oppor- 
tunit3\ 

During  his  residence  abroad  he  did  not  lose  his  hold  upon 
France.  The  French  ambassador,  we  perceive,  was  well 
disposed  toward  him.  There  was  already  a  considerable 
French  colony  in  London,  with  head-quarters  at  the  Rainbow 
coffee-house  in  Mary-Ie-bone.  His  old  master,  the  Abbd 
d'Olivet,  and  his  future  enemy,  Maupertuis,  were  both  in 
London  during  his  stay.  The  frequenters  of  the  Rainbow 
had  not  done  talking,  in  1728,  of    Mademoiselle  de    Livri's 


236  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

romantic  marriage  with  the  Marquis  de  Gouvernet.  Stranded 
in  London,  a  member  of  a  bankrupt  company  of  French 
actors,  living  on  charity  at  a  tavern,  perhaps  at  the  Rain- 
bow itself,  this  young  lady,  whom  Voltaire  had  introduced 
to  the  stage  years  before,  had  captivated  a  French  marquis, 
and  in  1727  was  married  to  him,  and  was  then  living  in 
Paris  as  a  grande  dame.  Voltaire  could  have  heard  full  par- 
ticulars at  the  Rainbow,  and  he  used  them  by  and  by  as 
material  for  his  comedy  of  "  L'Ecossaise."  With  old  French 
friends,  too,  he  kept  relations,  writing  once,  and  in  the  old 
familiar  manner,  to  the  Duchess  du  Maine. 

In  July,  1727,  as  the  royal  archives  show,  he  received  per- 
mission to  visit  Paris  for  three  months  on  business,  but  did 
not  go.  Perhaps  the  business  was  arranged  without  him. 
If  so,  it  was  not  with  his  brother  Arraand's  good  will.  He 
could  not  be  friends  with  Armand,  though  the  Channel  rolled 
between  them.  In  June,  1727,  a  few  weeks  before  he  ob- 
tained permission  to  go  to  Paris,  he  wrote  to  Thieriot: 
"  You  need  not  suspect  me  of  having  set  foot  in  your  coun- 
try, nor  even  of  having  thought  of  doing  so.  My  brother, 
especially,  is  the  last  man  to  whom  such  a  secret  could  be  . 
confided,  as  much  from  his  indiscreet  character  as  from  the 
ugly  (yilaine)  manner  in  which  he  has  treated  me  since  I 
have  been  in  England.  By  all  sorts  of  methods  I  have 
tried  to  soften  the  pedantic  clownishness  and  insolent  ego- 
tism with  which  he  has  overwhelmed  me  during  these  two 
years  past.  I  confess  to  you,  in  the  bitterness  of  my  heart, 
that  his  insupportable  conduct  toward  me  has  been  one  of  my 
keenest  afflictions." 

Armand  has  left  us  no  means  of  knowing  his  side  of  the 
story.  Deacon  Paris  had  just  died  of  self-torture  in  France, 
and  the  first  miracle  wrought  at  his  bier  bears  date  May  3, 
1727  ;  a  miracle  in  which  Armand  Arouet  believed  with 
besotted  and  adoring  faith.  Strange  spectacle !  One  brother 
in  Paris  gloating  over  tales  of  Convulsionirft  miracles,  and  the 
other  brother  in  London  writing  "  Charles  XII.,"  "  Brutus," 
and  "  Lettres  Philosopliiques,"  acting  powerfully  upon  the 
intelligence  of  Europe,  and  holding  up  free  England  for 
France  to  see  !  What  Darwin  will  explain  to  us  so  myste- 
rious a  fact  in  the  natural  history  of  our  race  ? 


i 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

RETURN  TO  FRANCE. 

His  exile  was  long  for  such  an  offense  as  he  had  committed. 
When  the  spring  of  1729  opened,  more  than  three  years  had 
passed  since  he  had  challenged  the  Chevalier  de  Rohan  in  the 
box  of  Madame  Lecouvreur.  He  was  doing  very  well  in  Eng- 
land, his  richly  endowed  university,  getting  knowledge  and 
winning  prizes.  But  students  are  not  apt  to  settle  at  their 
university,  and  no  Frenchman  so  French  as  he  was  could  be 
at  home  out  of  France.  He  did  not  like  beer,  nor  the  prac- 
tice of  drinking  healths,  nor  London  fogs  ;  and  on  one  occa- 
sion, it  seems,  some  rough  Londoners  hustled  him,  and  showed 
him  how  rude  Britons  in  Hogarth's  time  felt  toward  the  frog- 
eating  French,  their  "  natural  enemies."  He  mounted  a  stone 
and  harangued  the  mob  :  "  Brave  Englishmen,  am  I  not  al- 
ready unhappy  enough  in  not  having  been  born  among  you  ?  " 
He  addressed  them  so  eloquently,  Wagniere  records,  that  they 
"  wished,  at  last,  to  carry  him  home  on  their  shoulders  !  "  ^ 

His  portfolio,  too,  as  we  have  seen,  was  getting  full  of 
things,  printed  and  manuscript,  that  he  yearned  to  give  to  a 
susceptible  French  public:  a  better  "  Henriade,"  a  printed 
"  Brutus,"  an  outlined  "  Julius  Caesar,"  "  English  Letters  " 
in  a  state  of  forwardness,  and,  above  all,  a  "  History  of  Charles 
XH.,"  gathered  from  eye-witnesses,  compact  with  every  ele- 
ment of  interest,  a  fresher  subject  to  that  generation  than 
Bonaparte  was  to  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  a  work  which  he  felt 
would  pervade  Europe  as  fast  as  printers  could  print  copies. 
Other  schemes  were  in  his  mind,  for  which  he  had  made  prep- 
arations :  a  something  that  should  commemorate  the  pictur- 
esque and  eventful  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  certain  plays  in 
which  he  would  try  Shakespearean  innovations  upon  a  French 
audience. 

1  1  Memoires  sur  Voltaire,  23. 


238  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Knowledge  is  the  food  of  genius.  His  university  of  Eng- 
land had  n(juiished  him  with  new  and  fascinating  knowledge 
\  of  many  kinds,  and  we  see  in  his  letters  that  he  had  a  pa- 
triot's desire,  as  well  as  an  author's  amhition,  to  make  his 
native  land  a  sharer  in  his  newly  found  treasures.  Why, 
then,  so  long  in  England  ?  Was  the  court  implacable?  The 
queen,  Paris-Duveruey,  Richelieu,  De  Prie,  Bourbon,  all  of 
whom  had  smiled  upon  him  and  done  him  substantial  ser- 
vice, could  not  their  influence  avail  in  his  behalf?  No  more 
than  that  of  the  lackeys  who  served  them !  The  serene  and 
astute  old  Cardinal  de  Fleury  had  driven  them  from  court, 
and  put  the  ablest  of  them,  Paris-Duverney,  into  the  Bastille, 
where  he  had  been  in  rigorous  confinement  almost  as  long  as 
Voltaire  had  been  in  exile. 

Under  personal  government,  as  in  the  game  of  chess,  the 
object  of  intrigue  is  to  capture  the  king ;  and,  as  a  means  to 
that  end,  it  is  an  important  point  to  get  the  queen.  But  the 
taking  of  the  queen  is  not  always  decisive,  because  the  queen 
is  not  always  on  convenient  terms  with  her  husband.  Paris- 
Duverney  as  financier  may  be  almost  said  to  have  saved  the 
monarchy ;  his  and  his  three  brothers'  hard-headed  sense  be- 
ing the  antidote  to  the  bane  of  John  Law's  inflation.  But, 
as  court  intriguer,  he  was  not  successful ;  for  in  that  vocation 
a  knowledge  of  human  nature  is  essential,  which  financiers  do 
not  usually  possess.  He  gave  France  a  queen,  but  that  queen 
was  not  able  to  give  him  the  king. 

An  intrigue  of  Louis  XIV.'s  cabinet  drew  those  four  re- 
markable  brothers  Paris  from  the  obscurity  of  an  Alpine 
hamlet,  near  Geneva,  where  their  father  kept  an  inn  and  cul- 
tivated land  ;  a  man  of  repute  in  his  neigliborhood  ;  his  four 
sons,  all  large,  handsome  men,  intelligent,  energetic,  and 
punctiliously  honest.  Antoine  Paris,  Claude  Paris,  Josej^h 
Paris,  and  Jean  Paris  were  their  real  names  ;  but  the  French 
indulge  their  own  fancy  in  naming  themselves,  and  the  most 
eminent  of  these  four,  Joseph  Paris,  is  only  known  in  books 
as  Pavis-Duvemey.  Literary  men  should  deal  tenderly  with 
his  name  and  memory,  for  he  it  was  who  helped  make  the 
fortune  of  two  of  their  fraternity,  Voltaire  and  Beaumarchais. 
It  is  doubtful  if  the  world  had  ever  known  its  "Figaro"  if 
Paris-Duverney  had  not  sent  Beaumarchais  to  Spain  with  a 
pocket  full  of  money  to  speculate  with. 


RETURN  TO  FRANCE.  239 

It  was  a  cabinet  intrigue,  I  say,  that  gave  the  Alpine  inn- 
keeper and  his  four  fine  boys    an   opportunity  to   show  the 
great  world  the  metal  they  were  made  of.    Minister-of-Finanee 
Pontchartrain  had  an  interest  in  frustrating  Miiiister-of-VVar 
Louvois,  both  being  in  the  service  of  Lquis  XIV.,  and  France 
being  at   war   with  Savoy.      Pontchartrain  had  induced  the 
king  to  give  the  contract  for  supplying  the  army  to  a  new 
company  offering  to  do  the  business  cheaper.     Louvois,   of- 
fended at  this  interference,  caused  the  army  to  move  in  such 
a  way  and  at  such  a  time  that  the  contractors  could  not  sup- 
ply it.     Remonstrance  was  unavailing.     "  Have  thirty  tliou- 
sand  sacks  of  flour  on  the  frontier  in  depot,  on  a  certain  day, 
or  your  head    shall    answer   it,"  was  all  the  concession  that 
could  be  wrung  from  the  minister  of  war.     The   contractors' 
agent,  in  despair,  opened  his  heart  to  his  landlord,  the  Sieur 
Paris,  known  to  be  a  man  of  resources,  whose  inn  lay  near  the 
route  by  which  provisions  must  pass.     "  Wait,"  said  the  land- 
lord, in  substance,  "  till  the  boys  come  in  from  the  fields."     A 
family  consultation  was  held  ;  the  sons  agreed  that  the  thing 
could  be  done,  and  that  they  could  do  it.     In  this  operation, 
as  in  all  subsequent  ones,  the  brothers   acted  together,   with 
common  purse,  plan,  and  interest,  each  doing  the  part  which 
nature  and  experience   had  best  fitted  him  for.     One  brother 
scoured  the  country  for  mules  ;   another  borrowed  the  grain 
at  Lyons ;  another  arranged  the  lines  of  the  laden  beasts,  and 
had  them  conducted  to  the  frontier  by  paths  known  only  to 
Alpine  peasants.     The  business,  in  short,  was  accomplished, 
and  the  contractors   gave  these  vigorous   mountaineers  such 
rewards  and  chances  that  before  many  years  were  past,  they, 
too,  became  contractors  and  capitalists.     It  was  chiefly  they 
who  supplied  the  armies  of  Louis  XIV.  while  Marlborough 
was  defeating  them  year  after  year,  and  on  two  or  three   or 
four  occasions  it  was  their  amazing  energy  and  disinterested 
patriotism  that  saved  defeated  armies  from  annihilation;  freely 
expending  all  their  own  capital,  and,  what  is  much  harder  to 
such  men,  putting  at  hazard  the  millions  borrowed  on  the  sole 
security  of  their  name  and  honor.     When  France  issued  from 
that  long  contest,  in  1714,  with  her  finances  in  chaos  incon- 
ceivable, it  was  still  these  brothers  who  began  to  reduce  them 
to  order.     Inflator  Law  drove  them  into  brief  exile,  and  ex- 


240  LIFE   OF   VOLTAITIE. 

aggerated  the  financial  evil  tenfold.  The  universal  collapse  of 
Februar}',  1720,  brought  them  back;  and  then,  by  five  years  of 
constant,  well  directed,  well  concerted  toil,  the  proofs  of  which 
exist  to  this  day,  they  put  the  finances  of  the  kingdom  into 
tolerable  ordei",  and  so  enabled  the  frugal,  industrious  French 
people  to  utilize  the  twenty  years  of  peace  which  Cardinal  de 
Fleury  was  about  to  give  them.  And  thus  it  was  that  Faris- 
Duverney,  the  innkeeper's  son,  came  to  be,  in  1725,  the  confi- 
dential secretary  of  the  Duke  of  Bourbon,  prime  minister,  as 
well  as  the  trusted  counselor  of  his  mistress,  the  Marquise  de 
Prie. 

But  in  placing  the  daughter  of  a  king-out-of-place  upon  the 
throne  of  France,  he  ventured  beyond  his  depth.  The  in- 
trigue both  succeeded  and  failed.  Their  candidate,  indeed, 
married  the  boy  king,  and  Paris-Duverney  induced  her  to 
give  her  "  poor  Voltaire  "  a  pension  of  three  hundred  dollars 
a  year  ;  but  when  the  moment  came  for  her  to  deliver  the 
young  king  into  the  hands  of  the  Duke  of  Bourbon  and  his 
mistress,  she  was  grieved  to  discover  that  she,  young  wife  as 
she  was,  was  no  match  for  the  old  priest.  The  king  liked  his 
tutor,  who  was  a  singularly  agreeable  and  placid  old  gentle- 
man, and  never  asked  one  favor  for  himself  or  for  a  relation. 
The  Duke  of  Bourbon  was  neither  pleasing  in  his  appearance 
nor  winning  in  his  demeanor.  The  king  felt  at  home  with 
the  preceptor,  felt  safe  with  him,  relished  his  company,  and 
had  perfect  confidence  in  his  fidelity. 

The  explosion  occurred  a  few  days  after  the  departure  of 
Voltaire  for  England  in  1726.  There  were  two  parties  at 
court  playing  for  the  possession  of  the  king  :  one,  headed  by 
this  quiet  and  good-tempered  old  priest ;  the  other,  by  the 
Duke  of  Bourbon,  aided  conspicuously  and  actively  by  Ma- 
dame de  Prie,  who  in  turn  was  directed  by  Paris-Duverney. 
The  mistress  was  too  aggressive,  and  too  hungry  for  money. 
She  was  ill-spoken  of  out-of-doors ;  and,  within  the  palace,  she 
had  many  enemies.  Fleury  at  length  spoke  to  the  prime 
minister,  and  advised  him  to  end  the  scandal  by  sending  the 
Marquise  de  Prie  from  court.  The  mistress,  who  was  also 
dame  du  palais  to  the  queen,  resolved,  "  according  to  the  rules 
of  court  warfare,"  to  send  away  the  preceptor.^  The  contest, 
^  Siecle  de  Louis  XV.,  par  Voltaire,  chapter  iii 


RETURN   TO   FRANCE.  241 

short  and  decisive,  had  these  results  :  the  Duke  of  Bourbon 
was  dismissed  and  "  exiled  "  to  liis  own  chateau  at  Chantilly ; 
Madame  de  Prie  was  exiled  to  her  province,  where  she  soon 
died  in  "the  convulsions  of  despair;"  Paris-Duverney  was 
consigned  to  an  insalubrious  apartment  in  the  Bastille  ;  his 
chief  clerk  to  a  dungeon  in  the  same  chateau  ;  his  biothers 
were  exiled  ;  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury  became  prime  minister, 
drove  many  harpies  from  court,  and  for  twenty  years  gov- 
erned France  with  the  minimum  of  waste  possible  under  that 
regime.  He  was  as  avaricious  for  the  king,  St.  Simon  re- 
marks, as  he  was  i-egardless  of  personal  emolument.  Inci- 
dentall}^,  our  exile  was  affected ;  for  his  friends  were  in  dis- 
grace and  could  not  help  him. 

The  queen  herself  was  formally  placed  under  the  control  of 
the  cardinal  whom  she  had  tried  to  displace.  "  I  pray  you, 
madame,"  wrote  the  king  of  sixteen  to  the  queen  of  twenty- 
three,  "  and  if  necessary  I  command  you,  to  do  all  that  the 
bishop  [De  Fleury]  may  tell  you  to  do  from  me,  as  if  I  had 
said  it  myself."  For  some  time  she  was  under  a  manifest 
cloud.  During  Voltaire's  secret  visit  to  Paris  in  the  summer 
of  1726,  he  ventured,  it  seems,  to  go  in  some  disguise  to  the 
theatre  when  the  king  and  queen  were  to  attend  ;  the  play  be- 
ing Racine's  "  Britannicus."  "  The  king  and  queen,"  he  wrote 
forty  years  after,  "  arrived  an  hour  later  than  usual.  The 
whole  audience  perceived  that  the  queen  had  been  crying; 
and  I  remember  that  when  Narcisse  pronounced  this  verse, 
'  Why  delay,  my  lord,  to  repudiate  her  ? '  almost  every  one 
present  looked  toward  the  queen  to  observe  the  effect."  This 
was  at  the  crisis  of  the  intrigue,  and  a  few  days  after,  as 
Voltaire  adds,  "  Paris-Duverney  was  no  longer  master  of  the 
state." 

The  queen's  persistence  in  presenting  France  with  girls, 
when  a  boy  was  so  intensely  desired,  did  not  help  her  friends 
in  their  time  of  trouble.  The  pair  of  girls  with  which  she 
began  in  1726  might  have  been  pardoned,  since  their  youth- 
ful sire  was  so  proud  of  them  ;  but  a  third  princess  in  1728 
was  resented  as  an  impertinence,  and  not  a  gun  saluted  her 
arrival.  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope.  The  saddened 
queen,  as  soon  as  she  was  well  enough  to  go  out,  went  in  mag- 
nificent and  solemn  state  to  Notre  Dame,  attended  by  all  her 

VOL.  I.  16 


242  LITE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

ladies  in  four  eight-horse  carriages,  and  escorted  by  twenty 
guards,  several  pages  and  twelve  footmen,  to  pray  the  Virgin 
to  bestow  upon  her  the  honor  of  giving  a  dauphin  to  France. 
An  immense  concourse  of  people  gathered  in  the  streets  to  see 
her  pass  upon  this  errand.  As  she  approached  the  church, 
a  cardinal  in  his  splendid  robes,  attended  by  a  multitude  of 
priests,  advanced  to  the  door  to  receive  her.  Advancing  along 
the  nave,  she  ascended  a  platform,  and  kneeling  upon  a  cush- 
ion said  her  prayer,  while  thousands  of  spectators,  upon  their 
knees,  joined  in  the  entreaty.  She  rose,  and  took  a  seat  pre- 
pared for  her ;  after  which  a  grand  mass  was  said,  accom- 
panied with  new  and  beautiful  music  composed  for  the  occa- 
sion. At  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony  she  retired  to  an 
apartment  adjacent,  where,  we  are  informed,  she  refreshed  her- 
self with  a  bowl  of  broth,  and  then  returned  to  the  palace  with 
the  same  pomp,  followed  by  the  blessings  of  a  countless  multi- 
tude of  people.  Thirteen  months  after,  to  the  inconceivable 
joy  of  France,  the  wdshed-for  prince  was  born  !  Every  bell 
in  Paris  rang  a  merry  peal.  Cannons  were  fired.  For  three 
eveninofs  in  succession  Paris  was  ablaze  with  fire-works  and 
illuminations,  and  on  the  following  Sunday  huge  bonfires  were 
lighted  in  every  part  of  the  city.  The  boy  whose  birth  gave 
such  delight  did  not  live  to  reign  over  France ;  but  he  was  the 
father  of  that  Louis  XVI.  who  perished  during  the  French 
Revolution. 

The  cardinal  minister  was  slow  to  forgive  the  man  who  had 
come  near  consigning  him  to  the  obscurity  of  a  country  bish- 
opric. Paris-Duverney  remained  a  prisoner  nearly  two  years, 
and  it  was  not  till  near  the  close  of  1728,  that  the  four  bi'oth- 
ers  Paris  were  restored  to  liberty,  so  far  as  to  be  allowed  to 
live  together  fifty  miles  from  the  capital.  Other  circumstances 
were  favorable  to  the  exile,  and  he  resolved,  early  in  1729, 
without  seeking  a  formal  permission,  which  might  have  been 
refused,  to  venture  to  approach  Paris  as  near  as  St.  Germain- 
en-Laye,  fifteen  miles  from  the  capital.  "  Write  no  more  to 
your  wandering  friend,"  he  wrote  to  Thieriot,  March  10,  1729, 
"  for  at  an  early  moment  you  will  see  him  appear.  Prepare 
to  come  at  the  first  summons." 

Rich  booty  as  he  brought  with  him  from  a  foreign  land,  he 
did  not  return  as  a  conqueror.     About  the  middle  of  March, 


RETURN   TO  FRANCE.  243 

a  solitary  traveler  reached  St.  Germain-en-Laye,  who  called 
himself  Monsieur  Sansons,  and  took  lodgings  at  the  house  of 
one  Chatillon,  wig-maker,  Rue  des  R^collets,  opposite  to  the 
monastery  of  the  fathers  so  named.  The  new-comer  dispatched 
a  note  to  Thieriot :  "  You  must  ask  for  Sansons.  He  inhabits 
a  hole  in  this  barrack,  and  there  is  another  for  you,"  as  well 
as  "  a  bad  bed  and  short  commons."  The  friends  were  quickly 
reunited,  and  M.  Sansons  remained  for  several  days  in  his  hole 
hidden  from  mankind.  The  Richelieu  chateau  was  not  far  off. 
That  of  the  Duchess  du  Maine  was  within  easy  reach.  Ver- 
sailles was  near.  Obscure  allusions  in  the  letters  indicate 
that  a  few  individuals  of  his  old  circle  were  aware  of  his  re- 
turn, and  took  an  interest  in  his  safety.  Near  the  end  of 
March  he  ventured  to  take  up  his  abode  in  Paris,  at  the  house 
of  one  of  his  father's  old  clerks,  where  he  saw  no  one  but  the 
"few  indispensables."     Every  few  days  he  changed  his  abode. 

Richelieu,  Thieriot,  and  other  friends,  all  joined  in  advising 
him  to  apply  for  a  royal  warrant  annulling  the  order  of  exile. 
April  7tli  he  writes  to  Thieriot  a  sprightly  letter,  half  in 
French,  half  in  English,  telling  him  that  he  will  yield  to  their 
solicitations.  He  liked  to  mix  his  languages ;  this  very  note 
containing  three.  It  is  dated  thus  :  ^^  Die  Jovis,  quern  barhari 
Gain  nuncupant  Jeudi  (7  AvrW),  1729."  He  often  makes 
similar  reflections  upon  the  French  names  of  the  days  and 
months.  The  most  material  sentence  of  this  note  runs  thus  : 
"  Puis  done  que  vous  voulez  tons  que  je  sois  ici  avec  un  war- 
rant sign^  Louis,  go  to  Saint-Germain ;  I  write  to  the  Vizier 
Maurepas,  in  order  to  get  leave  to  drag  my  chain  in  Paris." 
The  minister  gave  him  the  warrant,  and  he  was  again  a  recog- 
nized inhabitant  of  his  native  city. 

Already  he  had  resumed  work  upon  his  "  Charles  XII."  As 
soon  as  he  had  a  room  to  work  in,  he  must  have  begun  ;  for 
with  this  note  of  April  7th,  written  eight  days  after  he  had 
reached  Paris,  he  returns  two  great  volumes  (the  "  Diets  of 
Poland,"  and  a  "  History  of  Alexander  the  Great  "),  and  asks 
Thieriot  to  find  him  an  account  of  the  topography  of  Ukrame 
and  Little-Tartary.  Assiduous  Thieriot  sends  him  maps  of 
those  I'egions,  and  is  rewarded  by  being  asked  to  find  "  a  very 
detailed  and  very  correct  map  of  the  world  ;  "  also  a  "  Life  of 
Peter  the  Great."     So  busy  was  he  with  this  interesting  work 


^. 


> 


244  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIKE. 

that  he  could  not  find  time  to  dine  Avith  Thieriot  eyen  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  though  engaged  to  do  so.  "Voltaire,"  he 
writes  May  15th,  "  is  a  man  of  honor  and  of  his  word,  if  he  is 
not  a  man  of  pleasure.  He  will  not  be  able  to  take  his  place 
at  table,  but  will  drop  in  at  the  end  of  your  oi'gie,  along  with 
that  fool  of  a  Charles  XII."  The  orgie  probably  concluded 
with  a  reading  of  the  chapter  finished  in  the  mox-ning.  On 
another  occasion  he  tells  Thieriot  that  he  will  dine  with  liini 
"  dead  or  alive." 

After  a  short  period,  then,  of  apprehension  and  of  wander- 
ing from  one  obscure  lodging  to  another,  we  find  him  settled, 
restored  to  his  rights  and  to  his  friends,  hard  at  work  upon  his 
book,  and  sharing  in  the  social  life  of  Paris.  He  soon  set 
Thieriot  at  work  getting  his  pensions  restored,  and  his  arrears 
paid  up  ;  in  which  they  succeeded,  minus  the  deductions  im- 
posed on  all  pensioners  by  a  cardinal  avaricious  for  his  king. 
Nor  did  he  delay  to  put  to  good  use  those  two  or  three  thou- 
sand solid  guineas  that  he  brought  from  England.  Accident 
helped  him  to  a  capital  speculation.  Supping  one  evening 
this  spring  with  a  lady  of  his  circle,  the  conversation  turned 
upon  a  lottery  recently  announced  by  the  controller-general, 
Desforts,  for  liquidating  certain  onerous  city  annuities.  La 
Condamine,  the  mathematician,  who  was  one  of  the  guests, 
remarked  that  any  one  who  should  buy  all  the  tickets  of  this 
lottery  would  gain  a  round  million.  Voltaire  silently  reflected 
upon  this  statement.  At  the  close  of  the  feast  he  hurried 
away  to  moneyed  friends, — doubtless  to  the  brothers  Paris, 
now  restored  to  their  career  in  Paris,  who  were  closely  allied 
to  the  richest  banker  of  the  day,  Samuel  Bernard.  A  company 
was  formed  ;  the  tickets  were  all  bought,  and  the  pinzes  de- 
manded. The  controller-general,  overwhelmed  with  confusion 
at  this  exposure  of  his  blunder,  refused  to  pay.  The  company 
appealed  to  the  council,  who  decided  in  their  favor.  Voltaire 
gained  a  large  sum  by  this  happy  stroke,  exaggerated  by  one 
chronicler  to  half  a  million  francs.  He  made,  it  is  true,  an 
enemy  of  the  minister,  who  was  devot ;  and  he  deemed  it  best 
to  disappear  from  Paris,  and  spend  some  weeks  with  the  Duke 
of  Richelieu  at  the  waters  of  Plombieres ;  as  lucky  men  with 
as  go  from  Wall  Street  to  Saratoga.  But  Desforts  was  soon 
after  displaced,  and  the  poet  could  safely  return.     Paris-Du- 


^. 


RETURN  TO   FRANCE.  245 

verney  did  not  forget  the  favor  done  him  on  this  occasion,  and 
before  many  years  had  rolled  away  he  was  able  to  make  a  sub- 
stantial return  in  kind, 

Voltaire  never  wanted  money  again,  and  never  missed  a 
good  opportunity  to  increase  his  store.  Later  in  the  year 
1729  we  see  him  dropping  work,  starting  in  a  post-chaise  at 
midnight  for  Nancy,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  distant,  —  a  ride 
of  two  nights  and  a  day,  —  for  the  purpose  of  buying  shares 
in  public  funds  of  the  Duke  of  Lorraine.  Arriving  more  dead 
than  alive,  he  was  informed  that,  by  order  of  the  duke,  no 
shares  were  to  be  sold  to  strangers.  But,  as  he  related  to 
President  Renault,  "  after  pressing  solicitations,  they  let  me 
subscribe  for  fifty  shares  (which  were  delivered  to  me  eight 
days  after),  by  reason  of  the  happy  resemblance  of  my  name 
to  that  of  one  of  his  Royal  Highness's  gentlemen.  I  profited 
by  the  demand  for  this  paper  promptly  enough.  I  have  trebled 
my  gold,  and  trust  soon  to  enjoy  my  doubloons  with  people 
like  you."  Ever  after,  as  long  as  he  lived,  he  was  in  the  habit  \ 
of  performing  feats  of  this  kind  ;  as  attentive  to  business  as  \  w^ 
though  he  had  no  literature  ;  as  devoted  to  literature  as  though 
he  had  no  business.  His  life  was  to  be  henceforth,  as  it  had  , 
been  hitherto,  a  continuous  warfare  with  powers  that  wielded 
the  resources  of  a  kingdom.  He  had  need  to  provide  himself 
with  the  sinews  of  war. 

Full  of  his  English  ideas,  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should 
speak  freely  and  warmly  among  his  friends  of  the  charms,  the 
power,  the  safety  of  freedom  ;  and  it  appears,  too,  that  he  now 
saw  more  clearly  than  before  that  there  could  be  no  freedom 
in  a  country  in  which  existed  an  order  of  men  clothed  with 
authority  to  define  what  men  must  believe.  The  citadel  of 
despotism,  he  discerned,  was  held  by  the  hierarchy,  whose 
power  was  founded  upon  human  credulity.  The  lieutenant  of 
police,  we  are  told,  sent  for  him  soon  after  his  return  from 
England,  and  admonished  him  concerning  the  freedoms  of  his 
conversation.  "  I  do  not  believe,"  replied  Voltaire,  "  that  it 
is  designed  to  liinder  me  from  speaking  freely  in  the  houses  of 
my  friends.  I  write  nothing,  I  print  nothing,  which  can  ren- 
der me  liable  to  censure  or  pursuit  on  the  part  of  the  govern- 
ment." The  lieutenant  is  said  to  have  interrupted  him  here. 
"  Whatever  you  may  write,"  said  that  officer,  "  you  will  never 


246  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

succeed  in  destroying  tlie  Christian  religion."  To  which  Vol- 
taire replied,  "We  shall  see." 

In  resuming  his  social  habits,  he  cftlled  upon  the  Marquise 
de  Gouvernet,  once  Mademoiselle  de  Livri,  the  companion  of 
his  merry  days,  his  protSgee  and  pupil  in  the  dramatic  art. 
Her  Swiss  refusing  to  admit  him,  he  sent  her  an  epistle  in  the 
airiest,  gayest,  sauciest  verse,  recalling  the  time  when,  in  an 
old  hackney  coach,  without  lackeys  or  ornaments,  adorned 
only  with  her  own  charms,  content  with  a  bad  soup,  she  had 
given  herself  to  the  lover  who  had  consecrated  to  her  his  life. 
AH  the  pomps  and  elegancies  of  her  rank,  he  tells  her,  —  "  that 
large,  white-haired  Swiss  who  lies  at  your  door  without  ceas- 
ing," "  those  brilliants  hanging  from  your  ears,  those  fragile 
marvels  of  your  abode,  —  all,  all  are  not  worth  one  kiss  that 
you  gave  in  your  youth."  "  The  tender  Loves  and  Laughs 
tremble  to  appear  under  your  magnificent  canopies.  Alas !  I 
have  seen  them  get  in  by  the  window  and  play  in  your  shabby 
lodgings."  She  did  not  resent  his  witty  impudence.  She  kept 
the  portrait  he  had  given  her  in  their  foolish,  happy  days,  for 
nearly  sixty  years.     They  were  destined  to  meet  again. 

And  so  passed  the  first  year  of  his  return.  He  enjoyed 
comparative  peace,  because,  as  he  said  to  the  lieutenant  of  po- 
lice, he  printed  nothing,  published  nothing.  Let  us  see  now 
how  it  fared  with  him  when  he  resumed  his  vocation. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

PURSUIT  OF  LITERATURE  UNDER  DIFFICULTIES. 

(  "  La  Henriade  "  was  at  length  allowed  to  be  sold  in 
France.  The  applause  of  Europe,  the  patronage  of  friendly 
courts,  the  popularity  of  the  work  at  home,  had  their  effect 
upon  a  ministry  every  member  of  which,  except  one,  seems 
to  have  enjoyed  and  admired  the  poem.  There  is  reason  to 
think  that  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury  himself  did  so.  )  This  won- 
drous regime  often  affords  us  the  spectacle  of  an  administration 
suppressing  a  book  which  nearly  every  member  delighted  in, 
and  suppressing  it,  perhaps,  with  the  more  energy  because 
they  delighted  in  it.  "  La  Henriade  "  was,  however,  only 
tolerated.  "Tins  new  edition,"  the  autlior  wrote,  in  1731, 
"  of  the  poem  of  '  La  Henriade,'  has  been  issued  at  Paris  by 
the  tacit  permission  of  M.  Chauvelin,  Master  of  Requests, 
and  of  M.  H^rault,  Lieutenant  of  Police,  without  the  Keeper 
of  the  Seals  yet  knowing  the  least  thing  about  it."  There  is 
another  sentence  in  the  same  letter  which  the  reader  will  do 
well  to  bear  in  mind  :  "  All  M.  de  Chauvelin  desires  is  to  give 
no  pretext  to  complaints  against  himself ;"  and  M.  de  Chau- 
velin was  the  protege  and  confidant  of  the  Cardinal  de  Fleu- 
ry. Of  all  the  cabinet  he  stood  nearest  to  the  prime  minis- 
ter. Henceforth,  then,  "  La  Henriade  "  was  a  tolerated  book 
in  France. 

The  tragedy  of  "  Brutus,"  printed  in  England  in  1727, 
and  since  revised,  was  offered  to  the  manager  in  December, 
1729.  The  author  invited  the  actors  to  dinner,  with  Thieriot 
and  one  or  two  other  friends.  After  dinner,  he  read  the 
play  ;  which  was  accepted,  put  in  rehearsal,  and  announced 
for  presentation.  Some  places  were  sold  for  the  opening 
night,  when  suddenly  the  author  withdrew  the  piece,  giving 
two  reasons  for  so  doing.  "  I  am  assured  on  all  sides,"  he 
wrote  to  Thieriot,  "  that  M.  de  Crebillon  [dramatic  author] 


248  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

has  gone  to  seek  M.  de  Cliabot  [Chevalier  de  Rohan],  and 
has  formed  a  plot  to  damn  '  Brutus,'  which  I  am  unwilling  to 
give  them  the  pleasure  of  doing.  Besides,  I  do  not  think 
the  piece  worthy  of  the  public.  So,  my  friend,  if  you  have 
engaged  seats,  send  and  get  your  money  back."  The  second 
reason  French  writers  think  was  the  controlling  one,  since 
Cr^billon  was  not  given  to  intrigue,  and  the  author  of 
"  Brutus"  fell  to  revising  the  play  again. 

In  March,  1730,  occurred  the  sudden  death  of  the  ac- 
tress, Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  aged  twenty-eight.  She  played 
for  the  last  time,  March  15th,  in  Voltaire's  "  Qj^dipe,"  and 
played,  despite  her  disorder,  with  much  of  her  accustomed 
force  and  brilliancy.  In  accordance  with  the  barbarous  cus- 
tom of  the  time  there  was  an  afterpiece,  in  which  she  also 
appeared  ;  and  she  w^ent  home  from  the  scene  of  her  triumphs 
to  die  after  four  days  of  anguish.  Voltaire  hastened  to  her 
bedside,  and  watched  near  her  during  her  last  struggle  for 
life ;  and  when  she  was  seized  with  the  convulsions  that  pre- 
ceded her  death,  he  held  her  in  his  arms  and  received  her  last 
breath.  Being  an  actress,  and  dying  without  absolution,  she 
was  denied  "  Christian  burial,"  and  the  gates  of  every  recog- 
nized burial  place  in  France  were  closed  against  her  wasted 
body,  the  poor  relics  of  a  gifted  and  bewitching  woman,  whom 
all  that  was  distinguished  and  splendid  in  the  society  of  her 
native  land  had  loved  to  look  upon.  At  night  her  body 
was  carried  in  an  old  coach  (^fiacre')  a  little  way  out  of  town, 
just  beyond  the  paved  streets,  to  a  spot  near  the  Seine  now 
covered  by  the  house  No.  109  Rue  de  Bourgogne.  The 
fiacre  was  followed  by  one  friend,  two  street-porters,  and  a 
squad  of  the  city  watch.  There  her  remains  were  buried, 
the  grave  was  filled  up,  and  the  spot  remained  unenclosed 
and  unmarked  until  the  city  grew  over  it  and  concealed  it 
from  view. 

The  brilliant  world  of  which  she  had  been  a  part  heard 
of  this  unseemly  burial  with  such  horror,  such  disgust,  such 
rage,  such  "stupor,"  as  we  can  with  difficulty  imagine,  be- 
cause all  those  ties  of  tenderness  and  pride  that  bind  families 
and  communities  together  are  more  sensitive,  if  not  stronger, 
in  France  than  with  our  ruder,  robuster  race.  The  idea  of 
not  having  friendly  and  decorous  burial,  of   not  lymg  down 


PURSUIT   OF   LITERATURE   UNDER   DIFFICULTIES.  249 

at  last  with  kindred  and  fellow  citizens  in  a  place  appointed 
for  tlie  dead,  of  being  taken  out  at  night  and  buried  at  a 
corner  of  a  road  like  a  dead  cat,  was  and  is  utterly  desolat- 
ing to  the  French  people.  Voltaire,  for  example,  could  never 
face  it;  he  lived  and  died  dreading  it. 

And  the  effect  of  the  great  actress's  surreptitious  burial 
was  increased  by  various  circumstances.  That  gifted  woman 
possessed  all  the  virtues  except  virtue;  and,  unhappily,  vir- 
tue the  gay  world  of  Paris  did  not  care  for.  Nature  and 
history  pronounce  virtue,  whether  in  man  or  woman,  the 
indispensable  preliminary  to  well-being,  and  the  church  was 
right  in  so  regarding  it.  But  Paris  loved  rather  to  repeat 
that  she  had  pledged  all  her  jewels  to  help  her  lover  (on« 
of  her  lovers),  Maurice  de  Saxe,  son  of  Augustus,  king  of 
Poland.  Paris  remarked  that,  if  she  had  not  partaken  of 
the  sacraments,  she  had  at  least  left  a  thousand  francs  to 
the  poor  of  her  parish.  The  gay  world  dwelt  much  upon 
her  noble  disinterestedness  in  refusing  to  receive  the  ad- 
dresses of  Count  dArgental,  though  that  infatuated  young 
man  loved  her  to  the  point  of  being  willing  to  sacrifice  his 
career  to  her.  That  she  had  borne  two  children  to  two 
lovers,  that  she  had  expended  the  precious  treasure  of  her 
life  and  genius  in  a  very  few  years  of  joyless  excitement,  that 
she  had  lived  in  utter  disregard  of  the  unchangeable  condi- 
tions of  human  welfare,  as  well  as  those  of  the  highest  artistic 
excellence,  —  who  thought  of  that?  Who  could  think  of 
that  in  connection  with  such  an  outrage  upon  her  wasted 
remains? 

Voltaire,  who  owed  so  much  to  this  brilliant  woman  who 
owed  so  much  to  him,  was  profoundly  moved.  To  the  assem- 
bled company  of  actors,  her  companions  in  glory  and  in 
shame,  he  said  :  "  Announce  to  the  world  that  you  will  not 
exercise  your  profession,  until  you,  the  paid  servants  of  the 
king,  are  treated  like  other  citizens  in  the  king's  service." 
They  promised  him  ;  but  who  was  to  maintain  them  in  the 
interval  ?  The  chiefs  of  the  company  only  received  from  a 
thousand  to  two  thousand  francs  a  year.  "  They  promised," 
he  wrote  thirty  years  after,  "  but  did  nothing  further  in  the 
matter.  They  preferred  dishonor  with  a  little  money,  to 
honor,  which  would  have  been  worth  more  to  them."  ^ 
1  Voltaire  to  Mademoiselle  Clairon,  August  17,  1761. 


250  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

It  SO  chanced  that  a  few  months  hiter,  in  the  same  year,  died 
Anne  Oldfield,  for  many  years  the  glory  of  the  London  stage ; 
■who  also  left  two  children  to  two  of  her  lovers.  She  was  buried 
witli  public  ceremonial  in  Westminster  Abbey,  her  remains 
followed  b}^  persons  eminent  in  rank  and  in  gifts.  It  was  when 
Voltaire  heard  of  Mrs.  Oldfield's  honorable  obsequies  that  his 
feelings  found  expression  in  his  well-known  poem  on  the 
death  of  Mademoiselle  Lecouvreur,  which  expressed  the  feel- 
ings of  the  public  also.  In  Greece,  he  cried,  such  a  woman 
would  have  had  an  altar!  Living,  France  hung  in  rapture 
upon  her  lips  ;  dead,  she  is  a  criminal !  "  Ah,  shall  I  always 
see  my  feeble  nation  blasting  what  it  admires,  sleeping  under 
the  dominance  of  superstition  ?  O  London,  happy  land, 
where  no  art  is  despised,  where  every  kind  of  success  has  its 
glory,  where  the  conqueror  of  Tallard,  son  of  Victory,  the  sub- 
lime Dryden,  the  wise  Addison,  the  charming  Ophils  (Old- 
field),  and  the  immortal  Newton,  all  have  their  place  in  the 
Temple  of  Glory  !  " 

This  poem,  handed  about  in  the  drawing-rooms  for  many 
weeks  in  manuscript,  attracted  the  notice  of  the  ministry  at 
length,  and  endangered  the  safety  of  the  author  for  a  while. 
Fortunately,  he  was  absent  from  Paris  at  the  time,  and  could 
take  measures  to  avert  the  peril.  His  indignation,  he  con- 
fessed, may  have  carried  him  too  far,  but  he  thought  it  "  par- 
donable in  a  man  who  had  been  her  admirer,  her  friend,  her 
lover,  and  who,  besides,  was  a  poet."  So,  perhaps,  thought 
the  ministry,  and  the  storm  blew  over. 

It  was  during  this  year,  1730,  that  he  began  that  burlesque 
poem  upon  Jeanne  Dare,  "La  Fucelle,"  which  for  thirty 
years  disturbed  his  repose,  very  much  as  a  packet  of  gunpow- 
der might  disturb  the  repose  of  a  man  who  was  obliged  to 
keep  it  in  his  wi'iting  desk.  The  work  was  suggested  at  tlie 
supper-table  of  the  Duke  of  Richelieu  ;  where,  the  conversa- 
tion turning  upon  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  some 
one  mentioned  Chapelain's  heroic  poem  on  the  subject,  which 
was  satirized  so  severely  by  Boileau,  and  the  guests  began 
to  quote  absurd  bits  from  it,  greatly  to  the  general  amuse- 
ment. After  this  had  gone  on  for  some  time,  the  following 
conversation  occurred  between  the  giver  of  the  feast  and 
Voltaire :  — 


PURSUIT   OF   LITERATURE   UNDER   DIFFICULTIES.  251 

Richelieu.  —  "I  bet  that  if  you  had  treated  this  subject,  you  would 
have  produced  a  better  work,  and  you  would  not  have  found  it  nec- 
essary, in  order  to  magnify  your  principal  character,  to  make  a  saint 
of  her." 

Voltaire.  —  "I  doubt  much  if  I  should  have  been  able  to  make 
a  good  serious  work  of  it.  In  the  history  of  Jeanne  Dare  there 
are  too  many  trivial  circumstances  bordering  upon  the  burlesque, 
and  others  altogether  too  atrocious.  How  to  inspire  a  great  inter- 
est in  the  minds  of  people  of  taste  for  a  girl  in  man's  dress,  who 
begins  by  leaving  a  tap-room  and  ends  by  being  burnt  alive  ?  Boi- 
leau  himself  could  not  have  succeeded  in  it.  My  belief  is  that, 
under  more  than  one  aspect,  this  subject,  drawn  from  our  own 
annals,  would  lend  itself  better  to  jocular  than  heroic  treatment." 

Richelieu.  —  "I  think  so  too,  and  no  one  would  be  more  capa- 
ble  than  you  of  doing  it  well,  if  you  would  undertake  it.  You  ought 
to  give  us  something  upon  it."  ^ 

The  guests  applauding,  as  guests  usually  applaud  a  duke's 
suggestions  at  bis  own  table,  tbe  poet  mentioned  various  ob- 
jections. They  pressed  the  subject  upon  him,  and  he  at  last 
promised  to  take  it  into  consideration.  He  had  been  reading 
Italian  a  good  deal  during  late  years  ;  and  now,  casting  aside 
his  serious  work,  he  dashed  into  a  poem  upon  the  "  Pucelle  " 
in  the  manner  of  Ariosto,  and  in  a  few  weeks  he  had  four 
cantos  done.  The  company  reassembled  at  the  Hotel  de  Riche- 
lieu, to  whom  these  four  cantos  were  read,  eliciting  boister- 
ous applause. 

From  this  time  the  author  worked  occasionally  upon  the 
poem,  relieving  thereby  the  severity  of  other  labors,  until  he 
had  produced  the  work  in  twenty-one  cantos  as  we  have  it 
now.  He  boasted  that  his  burlesque  was  not  as  long  as  that 
of  Ariosto.  "  I  should  have  been  ashamed,"  he  once  wrote, 
"  to  have  employed  thirty  cantos  in  those  fooleries  and  de- 
baucheries of  the  imasjination.  These  amusements  are  the 
interludes  to  my  occupations.  I  find  that' one  has  time  for 
everything  if  one  wishes  to  employ  it." 

This  mock-heroic  poem  of  nearly  ten  thousand  lines,  the 
longest  of  his  poetical  works,  is  strictly  in  the  line  of  Vol- 
taire's accepted  vocation,  which  was  to  terminate  the  domina- 
tion of  legends  over  the  human  mind.  Unfortunately,  it  was 
not  in  his  "power  at  that  time  to  know  how  much  truth  there 
1  Meinoires  sur  Voltaire,  par  S.  G.  Longchump,  Article  XIV. 


252  LIFE   or   VOLTAIRE. 

was  in  the  legend  of  the  patriotic  and  devoted  girl  who  bled 
for  her  country  and  began  the  expulsion  of  the  invader  from 
French  soil.  Among  the  manuscripts  in  the  royal  archives, 
not  then  accessible,  was  the  report  of  the  trial  of  Jeanne 
Dare,  wbich  was  published  some  years  ago  in  five  octavo  vol- 
umes by  the  Historical  Society  of  France.  From  this  valu- 
able publication,  one  of  the  most  interesting  memorials  of  that 
ao-e,  we  are  now  able  to  understand  her  and  her  work;  and, 
though  we  cannot  deny  that  there  was  an  ingredient  of  im- 
posture in  her  career,  and  even  conscious  imposture,  it  becomes 
plain  that  the  impulse  which  sent  her  forth  and  sustained  her 
to  the  end  was  noble  and  disinterested.  The  Maid  possessed 
some  intelligence,  great  courage,  and  great  fortitude.  Unlike 
ordinary  religious  impostors,  she  bore  her  banner  in  the  front 
of  the  battle,  where  wounds  and  death  were  in  the  air ;  she 
used  religion  in  such  a  way  as  to  change  the  French  army 
from  a  crowd  of  roystering  thieves,  ravishers,  and  drunkards 
into  moral,  resolute,  disciplined,  victorious  soldiers  ;  and,  at 
last,  after  baffling  for  five  months  the  sixty  priests  who  tried 
her,  she  couited  the  stake  rather  than  endure  degrading  and 
hopeless  imprisonment. 

But  Voltaire  could  have  known  scarcely  anything  of  all  this, 
and  he  employed  the  old  legend  of  the  Maid  as  a  vehicle  for 
twenty-one  cantos  of  uproarious  burlesque,  in  which  he  found 
opportunity,  from  time  to  time,  to  ridicule  all  the  objects 
of  his  aversion,  animate  and  inanimate,  tossing  in  the  same 
blanket  saints,  poets,  critics,  bishops,  beliefs,  rites,  usages,  hu- 
man foibles,  private  enemies,  public  grievances,  —  all  with  the 
same  buoyant,  inexhaustible  vivacity.  Open  the  poem  any- 
where, and  you  alight  upon  something  that  would  bring  a 
grin  to  the  cast-iron  visage  of  a  Calvin  —  if  he  was  alone.  It 
was  written  for  a  generation  that  had  no  more  notion  of  what . 
we  mean  by  the  word  "decency"  than  the  ladies  had  who  told 
and  heard  the  stories  of  the  "  Decameron."  For  twenty-five 
years  one  of  the  greatest  proofs  of  devotion  which  one  woman 
of  "  taste  "  could  give  another  was  to  procure  for  her  the  pe- 
rusal of  a  new  canto  of  "  La  Pucelle."  The  Queen  of  Prussia 
not  only  read  it,  but  permitted  her  young  daughter  to  hear 
it  read.  The  author's  old  professor,  Abb^  d' Olivet,  bantered 
him  upon  it,  as  upon  a  jest,  a  little  free  perhaps,  but  quite 


PUESUIT   OF  LITERATURE   UNDER  DIEFICULTIES.  253 

allowable.  Ladies  were  particularly  fond  of  such  literature 
then,  and  I  notice  that  when  an  author  in  that  age  wrote 
something  for  a  lady's  forfeit,  he  usually  accommodated  him- 
self to  the  ruling  taste  of  the  sex  by  producing  a  tale  like 
those  in  the  "  Decameron."  Voltaire  invariably  did  so.  Our 
conception  of  decency,  in  short,  is  a  thing  of  yesterday  ;  not 
on  that  account  the  less  to  be  approved  and  upheld  ;  but  not 
to  be  applied  as  a  moral  test  to  the  literature  of  past  ages. 

Henceforth,  then,  we  are  to  imagine  a  mass  of  blotted  manu- 
script in  the  poet's  desk,  or  carelessly  left  lying  about  on  his 
table,  liable  to  be  copied  by  curious  visitors  and  by  unfaithful 
secretaries  ;  a  manuscript  sure  to  be  called  for  by  guests  "  of 
taste,"  which  the  owner  thereof  was  only  too  willing  to  read 
aloud  for  their  entertainment ;  a  manuscript  of  which  vague 
rumors  soon  got  afloat  in  the  drawing-rooms,  and  reached  the 
ears  of  ministers  ;  a  manuscrijjt  with  exile  and  the  Bastille  in 
it,  if  not  the  wheel  and  the  stake.  In  that  immoral  age, 
when  living  virgins  were  merchandise  which  the  king  himself 
bought,  a  light  song  about  the  Virgin  could  bring  a  man  to 
the  fire. 

His  English  Letters  were  ready  for  publication.  What 
trouble  it  cost  him  to  get  that  little  book  before  the  public  of 
France  !  In  the  autumn  of  1730  he  sent  Thieriot  to  England 
with  letters  to  his  old  friends  in  that  country,  to  arrange  for 
its  translation  into  English  and  its  publication  in  London. 
That  was  not  difficult,  and  in  due  time  Thieriot  accomplished 
his  errand,  and  gained,  as  it  is  said,  four  hundred  pounds  ster- 
ling by  it.  In  France,  meanwhile,  Voltaire  strove  to  conciliate 
the  powers  in  favor  of  the  book,  and  endeavored  to  reduce  the 
ofi"ense  in  it  to  the  minimum.  "I  have  been  obliged,"  he  wrote 
to  a  friend,  "  to  change  all  that  I  had  written  upon  M.  Locke, 
because,  after  all,  I  wish  to  live  in  France,  and  it  is  not  per- 
mitted to  me  to  be  as  philosophic  as  an  Englishman.  At 
Paris  I  have  to  disguise  what  I  could  not  say  too  strongly 
in  London.  This  circumspection,  unfortunate  but  necessary, 
obliges  me  to  erase  more  than  one  passage,  sufficiently  amus- 
ing, upon  the  Quakers  and  Presbyterians.  My  heart  bleeds 
for  it ;  Thiei'iot  will  suffer  by  it ;  you  will  regret  those  places, 
and  I  also.  I  have  read  to  Cardinal  de  Fleury  two  letters 
upon  the  Quakers,  from  which  I  had  taken  great  pains  to  cut 


254  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

out  all  tliat  could  alarm  liis  devout  and  sage  Eminence.  He 
found  the  residue  pleasant  enougl> ;  but  the  poor  man  does  not 
know  what  he  lost." 

His  "  History  of  Charles  XH."  was  nearly  ready  for  the  press 
early  in  1730,  and,  having  submitted  it  to  tlie  appointed  cen- 
sor, he  received  a  royal  "  privilege "  to  publish  it  in  France. 
For  once,  as  lie  fondly  thought,  he  had  produced  a  work  in 
which  no  offense  could  be  found,  and  which  must  be  agreeable 
to  the  administration,  since  it  paid  abundant  honor  to  King 
Stanislas,  father  of  the  Queen  of  France.      Fortune,  indeed, 
had  favored  this  history   from   its  conception  by  giving  the 
author  familiar  access  to  a  great  number  of  individuals  who 
had  personal  knowledge  of  the  strange  events  to  be  related. 
Nearly  every  page  of  it  was  composed  from  information  de- 
rived from  eye-witnesses.    He  had  lived  familiarly  with  Baron 
de  Goertz,  favorite  minister  of  Charles  XH.,  distinguished  in 
history  as  the  only  man  who  ever  suffered  death  for  the  per- 
nicious error  of  inflating  a  country's  currency.     King  Stanislas 
himself  had  given  and  continued  to  give  him  important  aid. 
Maurice  de  Saxe,  son  of  Augustus   of  Poland  and  an  actor  in 
the  scenes  delineated,  he  had  met  constantly  in  the  society  of 
Madame  Lecouvreur.     Bolingbroke,  who  was  in  power  during 
part  of  Charles's  wild  career,  threw  light  upon  the  diplomacy 
and  politics  of  his  subject.     In  England  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough imparted  to  him  much  which  she  remembered  of  her 
husband's  dealings  with  the   Swedish  king.     Curious  details 
of  the  king's  life  in  Turkey  he  derived  from  Fonseca,  a  Portu- 
guese  physician    established    then  at  Constantinople,  and  in 
practice  among  the  viziers  and  pachas.      A   relation   of  Vol- 
taire's, INT.  Bru,  "first  dragoman  to  the  Porte,"  aided  him  also. 
Baron  Fabrice,  long  the  reader  and  secretary  of  the  Swedish 
king,  gave  him  anecdotes  and  details  in  great  number.     The 
work   was    made  up  of  "  interviews  ;  "    but   those  interviews 
were  not  presented  in  crude,  enormous  masses,  but  digested 
into  a  narrative,  bright,  clear,  and  serene,  that  could  be  read 
in  two  evenings.     Voltaire  told  this   wild  and  wondrous  tale 
as  Sallust  tells  the  story  of  Jugurtha  ;  and  there  is  revealed 
to  the  observant  reader  the  author's  contempt  for  the  hero,  as 
well  as  his  compassion  for  a  human  i-ace  so  imperfectly  devel- 
oped as  to  permit  a  silly  and  ignorant  young   man   to  work 


PmiSUIT   OF  LITEKATURE   UNDEU   DIFFICULTIES.  255 

such  causeless  havoc  among  innocent  populations.     The  book 
is  a  satire  upon  personal  government  of  unequaled  force,  and  ,' 
the  more  effective  from  being  so  brief  and  so  easily  read.         ^ 

Superstition,  the  chief  stay  of  personal  government  in  mod- 
ern times,  is  so  quietly  satirized  that  the  censor  did  not  perceive  ■ 
the  satire.  The  Muscovites,  said  the  sly  author,  have  scruples 
about  drinking  milk  on  fast  days,  but  fathers,  priests,  wives,  and 
maidens  get  drunk  upon  brandy  on  days  of  festival.  "  In 
that  country,  as  elsewhere,  there  are  disputes  upon  religion  ; 
the  greatest  quarrel  being  upon  the  question  whether  the  laity 
ought  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  with  two  fingers  or  with 
three."  The  passage,  too,  upon  the  establishment  of  the 
printing-press  in  Russia  was  amusing  :  "  The  monk  objected, 
and  used  the  printing-press  to  prove  the  Czar  Antichrist. 
Another  monk,  with  an  eye  to  preferment,  refuted  the  book, 
and  demonstrated  that  Peter  was  not  Antichrist,  because  the 
number  6QQ  was  not  in  his  name.  The  author  of  the  libel 
was  broken  upon  the  wheel ;  the  author  of  the  refutation  was 
made  Bishop  of  Rezan." 

Happy  in  his  "  privilege,"  Voltaire  put  the  work  to  press  in 
Paris,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1730  had  an  edition  of  twenty- 
six  hundred  copies  of  the  first  volume  ready  for  distribution. 
Suddenly,  without  cause  assigned,  by  a  mere  fiat  of  authority, 
the  privilege  was  withdrawn  and  the  whole  edition  seized,  ex-  j 
cept  one  copy  which  the  author  chanced  to  hafe  in  his  own 
possession. 

What  could  be  the  matter?  Voltaii-e  sought  information 
from  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  and  obtained  it.  •  A  turn  in  the 
politics  of  Europe  obliged  the  French  ministry  to  avoid  dis- 
pleasing Augustus,  King  of  Poland,  who  was  not  treated  very 
tenderly  in  the  work !  "  In  this  country,"  the  author  wrote 
to  a  friend,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  Stanislas  ought  to  be  consid- 
ered rather  than  Augustus,  and  I  flatter  myself  that  Stanislas' 
daughter,  Marie,  would  not  take  in  ill  part  the  good  things  I 
have  said  of  her  father."  The  minister  admitted  that  he  saw 
no  harm  in  the  work,  and  the  minister's  son  declared,  soon 
after,  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm,  that  if  Voltaire  did  not 
publish  it,  he  would.  But  the  minister  was  firm  in  his  resolve 
not  to  permit  the  book  to  appear  cum  privilegio,  alleging  al- 
ways the  necessity  the  King  of  France  was  under  to  menager 


256  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  actual  King  of  Poland  instead  of  his  father-in-law,  the 
late  king. 

Here  was  a  dead  lock,  —  two  works  ready  to  appear,  with 
little  chance  of  their  appearing ;  both  being  productions  which, 
for  various  reasons,  an  author  would  naturally  be  in  a  fever  to 
see  in  print.  The  foaming  rage  of  desire  which  makes  the  buf- 
falo toss  the  sods  of  the  prairie  in  the  summer  day,  regardless 
of  the  shrieking  train,  is  not  stronger  than  an  author's  pas- 
sion to  communicate  to  the  public  a  book  in  which  he  has  put 
his  convictions,  his  patriotism,  and  his  ambition.  Privilege  or 
no  privilege,  these  two  little  books  must  see  the  light !  Such 
was  the  resolve  of  their  author  in  the  late  weeks  of  1730. 
He  recalled  the  time  when  Thieriot  and  himself  had  had  "  La 
Henriade "  printed  at  Rouen,  and  had  smuggled  copies  to 
Paris  by  barge  and  wagon.  He  wrote  to  his  old  friend  and 
schoolfellow,  M.  de  Cideville,  now  settled  in  the  magistracy  at 
Rouen,  explaining  his  dilemma,  and  asking  him  if  he  could 
find  there  a  place  where  he  could  live  for  some  months  in  strict 
incognito,  and  a  printer  who  could  do  the  work  required.  Yes, 
replied  his  friend,  Jore,  printer  and  bookseller  of  Rouen,  will 
be  glad  to  provide  lodgings  for  an  anonymous  author,  and 
print  for  him  as  well. 

Two  things  detained  him  at  Paris  a  few  weeks.  He  had  an 
interest  in  a  vessel  named  The  Brutus,  coming  from  Barbary 
to  Marseilles  4aden  with  grain  ;  and  his  tragedy  of  "  Brutus," 
revised  and  altered,  was  again  in  rehearsal,  and  announced 
for  presentation  December  11,  1730.  An  immense  audience 
filled  the  theatre  on  the  opening  night,  and  the  piece  was  re- 
ceived with  that  kind  of  applause  which  denotes  a  house 
packed  with  friends  of  the  author.  But  the  next  night's  re- 
ceipts revealed  the  truth.  First  night,  5065  francs  ;  second 
night,  2540  francs  ;  fifteenth  and  last  night,  660  francs.  The 
fable  of  a  father  dooming  his  sons  to  death  may  be  endured  in 
the  reading,  but  we  cannot  see  him  do  it,  either  with  pleasure 
or  approval ;  and  it  had  been  found  impossible  by  dramatists, 
hitherto,  to  fill  up  five  acts  with  interesting  pretexts  for  such 
atrocious  virtue.  Voltaire  expresses  surprise  that  Shakespeare 
did  not  treat  a  subject  that  seemed  so  suitable  to  the  English 
stage,  and  lay  so  obviously  in  Shakespeare's  path.  That  such 
a  master  deliberately  forbore  to  attempt  it  might  well  have 


II 


PURSUIT   OF  LITERATURE   UlSTDER   DIFFICULTIES.       257 

been  a  warning  to  after-comers.  Voltaire's  piece,  however, 
contains  three  scenes  of  commanding  effect,  as  well  as  a  great 
number  of  striking  verses,  and  when  the  play  used  to  be  given 
during  the  delirium  of  the  Revolution,  in  1792,  it  excited  tu- 
multuous enthusiasm. 

On  his  way  home  from  one  of  the  representations  of  this 
play,  the  author  learned  that  the  ship  Brutus,  reported  lost,  had 
arrived  safely  at  her  port.  "Well,"  said  the  poet  to  his  factor, 
"  since  the  Brutus  of  Barbary  has  come  in,  let  us  console  our- 
selves a  little  for  the  sorry  welcome  given  to  the  Brutus  of 
ancient  Rome.  Perhaps  a  time  will  come  when  they  will  do 
lis  justice."  ^ 

The  part  of  Tullie  in  the  new  tragedy  was  performed  by  a 
girl  of  fifteen,  who  appeared  on  the  stage  for  the  first  time. 
She  was  terribly  frightened  on  the  opening  night,  and  could 
not  play  the  part  as  she  had  played  it  during  the  rehearsals. 
The  next  morning  the  author  reassured  her  by  a  letter  which 
was  all  tact  and  goodness. 

"  Prodigy  [he  wrote],  I  present  you  a  '  Henriade,'  a  very  serious 
work  for  your  age  ;  but  she  who  plays  Tullie  is  capable  of  reading ; 
and  it  is  quite  right  that  I  should  offer  my  works  to  one  who  em- 
bellishes them.  I  thought  to  die  last  night,  and  am  in  a  wretched 
state  this  morning  ;  but  for  which  I  should  be  at  your  feet  to  thank 
you  for  the  honor  you  are  doing  me.  The  piece  is  unworthy  of 
you  ;  but,  rely  upon  it,  you  are  going  to  win  great  *glory  in  invest- 
ing   my  role  of    Tullie  with    your  own    charms Do    not    be 

discouraged.  Think  how  marvelously  well  you  played  at  the  re- 
hearsals, and  that  nothing  was  wanting  to  you  yesterday  but  con- 
fidence.    Your  timidity  even  did  you  honor.     To-morrow  you  must 

take    your    revenge In   God's    name,   be    tranquil !     Though 

you  should  not  make  a  decided  hit,  what  does  it  matter  ?  You  are 
but  fifteen,  and  people  could  only  say  that  you  are  not  yet  what  you 
will  be  one  day.  For  my  part,  I  have  nothing  but  thanks  for  you. 
....  Begin  by  having  some  friendly  regard  for  me,  who  love  you 
like  a  father,  and  you  will  play  my  role  in  an  interesting  manner." 

He  was  too  sick  to  go  to  the  theatre  on  the  second  night, 
but  toward  the  close  of  the  evening  his  valet  brought  him 
the  good  news  that  Tullie  had  "played  like  an  angel !  " 

In   distributing   the    new   edition    of   "La   Henriade,"    he 

t  Duvernet,  chapter  vii. 
VOL.  I.  17 


258  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

sent  a  copy  also  to  his  ancient  master,  Father  Porde,  of 
the  College  Louis-le-Grand,  asking  him  to  receive  it  with 
some  indulgence,  and  to  think  of  him  as  a  son  who  came, 
after  the  lapse  of  many  years,  to  present  to  his  father  the 
fruit  of  his  labors  in  an  art  which  that  father  had  origi- 
nally taught  him.  He  asked  him  also  to  point  out  any  places 
in  the  poem  where  he  had  not  spoken  of  religion  as  he 
ought,  that  he  might  correct  them  in  the  next  edition. 
"  I  desire  your  esteem,  not  only  as  author,  but  also  as  a 
Christian." 

About  the  middle  of  March,  1731,  giving  out  on  all  sides 
that  he  was  about  to  return  to  England,  he  disappeared  from 
Paris,  and  took  up  his  abode  in  obscure  lodgings  at  the  ancient 
city  of  Rouen,  in  the  character  of  an  English  lord  exiled  for 
political  offenses  and  obliged  to  live  in  strict  seclusion.     A 
valet,  hired  for  the  occasion  at  twenty  sous  per  diem,  added 
to  the  usual  duties  of  a  valet  that  of  conveying  proof-sheets 
between  author  and  printer  ;  M.  Jore,  also,  was  ever  attentive 
to  the  pleasure  of  milord.     In    the  summer,  he  removed  to 
a  farm-house  near  by,   and  then   a  servant-girl  was  his  mes- 
seno-er,  going  to  the  printing-house  three  times  a  week.     In 
the  intervals  of    proof-reading,   he  worked,    with  even    more 
than  his  usual  assiduity,  upon  his  tragedy  of  "  Julius  Caesar," 
upon  "  Eriphyle,"  a    tragedy  sketched   before  leaving    Paris, 
and  upon  the  closing  part  of  "Charles  XII."     He  could  write 
in  June  to  Thieriot  that,  in  spite  of  a  slow  fever  that  kept  him 
miserable  for  some  weeks,  he  had  written   two  tragedies  and 
finished  "  Charles  XII."  in  three  months.     "In  Paris,  I  could 
not  have  done  that  in  three  years.     But  you  know  well  what 
H  prodigious  difference  there  is  between  a  mind  in  the  calm 
of  solitude  and  one  dissipated  in  the  world."     After  a  residence 
in  and  near  Rouen  of    six   months  or  more,  he    returned  to 
Paris,  without  having  yet  seen  a  copy  of  his  history.     Great 
bundles  of  copies,  however,  soon  arrived.     We  find  him  writ- 
ing to  a  Rouen  friend  in  October  :   "  If  it  will  cost  only  sixty 
livres  by  land,  send  the  packages  by  the  carrier  to  the  address 
of  the  Duke  of  Richelieu,  at  Versailles,  and  I,  being  informed 
of  day  and  hour  of  arrival,  will  not  fail  to  send  a  man  in  the 
Richelieu  livery,  who  will  deliver  the   whole  safely.     If  the 
land  carriage  is  too  expensive,  I  pray  you  to  forward  them  by 


PURSUIT   OF  LITERATURE   UNDER  DIFFICULTIES.       259 


:1 


water  to  St.  Cloud,  whither  I  will  send  a  wagon  for  them." 
These  ballots,  probably,  contained  copies  for  the  queen  and 
court. 

"  Charles  XII."  was  received  with  heartiest  welcome  in  all 
countries  which  contained  an  educated  class.  Translations  and 
new  editions  followed  one  another  quickly,  until  it  reached 
the  whole  reading  public  of  Europe  and  America.  When  a 
writer  takes  all  the  trouble  and  leaves  the  reader  nothing 
but  pleasure,  it  is  usual  for  critics  to  surmise  that  the  author 
invented  romantic  or  convenient  circumstances.  This  work, 
written  during  the  lifetime  of  thousands  of  men  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  events  described,  was  subjected  to  severe 
and  repeated  scrutiny.  The  author,  sedulous  to  profit  by  this, 
incorporated  new  facts  from  time  to  time,  and  corrected  errorsy 
until  it  was,  perhaps,  as  true  a  narrative  as  written  language 
could  present  of  a  career  involving  so  many  extraordinary  and 
distant  scenes.  It  remains  to  this  day  the  only  work  of  the 
author  which  has  universal  and  unimpeded  currency,  being 
used  as  a  school-book  in  all  countries  where  French  is  a  part  '  '^  ^'' 
of  polite  education.  At  the  time  it  gave  him  a  perceptible 
increase  of  reputation,  as  well  as  a  certain  weight  with  the 
public  which  he  had  not  before  possessed.  It  widened  his 
celebrity,  since  there  are  ten  persons  who  can  enjoy  an 
easy,  limpid  narrative  in  prose,  for  one  who  finds  pleasure  in 
classic  poetry. 

The  English  Letters  were  not  yet  seen  in  France.  The 
author  was  still  modifying  the  audacities,  and  veiling  the 
heresies,  and  cutting  away  the  inadmissibles,  ever  hoping  to 
render  the  work  such  as  a  not  ungenial  cardinal  might  tacitly 
allow  to  circulate.  It  surprises  us  that  he  could  have  indulged 
such  an  expectation  ;  but  we  perceive  from  his  familiar  corre- 
spondence with  comrades  that  he  did  so. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THE   CONVULSIONIST   MIRACLES. 

On  the  return  of  Voltaire  to  Paris,  late  in  the  summer  of 
1731,  he  found  his  fellow-citizens  again  agitated  by  the  ancient 
Jansenist  and  Molinist  controversy.  From  being  the  sport 
of  theologians,  it  had  now  come  to  be  the  scoff  of  the  polite 
world  and  the  scourge  of  the  people.  At  that  time  France 
may  have  contained  a  population  of  twenty  millions,  of 
whom,  perhaps,  two  millions  could  read,  and  half  a  million 
may  have  had  mental  culture  enough  to  follow  with  pleasure 
an  easy  narrative  like  Voltaire's  "  Charles  XII."  When  Tal- 
leyrand visited  Yale  College,  as  late  as  1794,  he  told  the  pres- 
ident that  he  thought  eighteen  millions  of  the  French  people 
could  neither  read  nor  write. 

An  ignorant  people  take  instinctively  to  the  severer  modes 
of  religion,  as  they  do  to  the  severer  schools  of  law  and 
physic.  They  like  their  medicine,  whether  for  mind  or  body, 
exceedingly  nauseous  and  painful.  They  love  the  terrors  of 
the  law.  Jansenism,  too,  had  the  advantage,  which  Voltaire 
enjoyed,  of  being  constantly  denounced  and  prosecuted  by  the 
government, — the  most  effective  mode  of  advertising  then 
invented.  Hence  the  "  philosophers "  and  the  Jansenists 
shared  the  sovereignty  over  the  French  mind  between  them: 
the  philosophers  swaying  the  few  thousands  who  partook  of 
the  intellectual  life  of  the  age,  and  the  Jansenists  controlling 
many  hundreds  of  thousands  who  sought  welfare  through  re- 
ligion. As  late  as  1731,  Voltaire  could  still  say,  with  an  ap- 
proach to  truth,  that  all  France  was  Jansenist,  except  the 
Jesuits,  the  bishops,  and  the  court. 

It  may  have  been  on  the  very  day  of  his  reappearance  in 
Paris,  in  1731,  that  he  witnessed  the  solemn  and  elaborate 
burning  (August  29th)  of  a  small  Jansenist  book  by  the  pub- 
lic executioner.    The  book  was  the  "Life  of  Deacon  Paris,"  or, 


THE   CONVULSIONIST   MIRACLES.  261 

as  the  Jansenists  loved  to  style  him,  Saint  Paris ;  a  name  of 
renown  at  tliat  day  among  millions  of  Frenchmen  who  lived 
and  died  in  ignorance  of  the  name  of  Voltaire.  The  college 
of  cardinals  and  the  chiefs  of  the  inquisition  united  in  de- 
nouncing this  little  book,  in  menacing  with  "the  excommuni- 
cation major  "  all  who  should  even  read  it,  and  in  condemn- 
ing it  to  be  publicly  burned.  In  the  open  space,  opposite 
the  convent  of  Minerva,  a  very  large  platform  was  built,  and 
in  front  of  it,  at  a  distance  of  thirty  paces,  a  stake  was  set 
up,  as  though  Deacon  Paris  himself  was  to  be  burned.  The 
cardinals  ascended  the  platform,  to  the  eldest  of  whom  the 
clerk  of  their  court  presented  the  unhappy  Book,  with  thin 
chains  twisted  about  it  and  fastened  with  care.  The  car- 
dinal in  chief  handed  the  book  thus  bound  to  the  grand  in- 
quisitor, who  gave  it  back  to  the  clerk.  That  officer  then 
handed  it  to  the  provost,  who  gave  it  to  a  bailiff,  who  passed 
it  on  to  a  watchman,  who  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tioner, who  raised  it  high  above  his  head,  slowly  and  gravely 
turning  round  to  the  four  points  of  the  compass.  He  then 
took  off  the  chains  from  the  book,  tore  out  the  leaves,  one  at  a 
time,  dipped  each  leaf  in  boiling  pitch,  and,  finally,  the  whole 
mass  of  leaves  being  placed  at  the  stake,  he  set  fire  to  it,  and 
regaled  the  people  with  a  fine  blaze. ^ 

Why  this  childish  scene  ?  And  who  was  Deacon  Paris  ? 
The  reader  who  would  understand  Voltaire  and  his  time 
must  know  what  that  thing  was  which  called  itself  "  religion  " 
in  his  day,  and  how  it  presented  itself  to  his  eyes,  I  will 
therefore  briefly  answer  these  questions,  reminding  the  reader, 
once  more,  that  of  these  two  brothers  Arouet,  one  looked 
upon  the  scenes  about  to  be  described  with  contemptuous  pity, 
and  the  other  with  rapturous  approval. 

Francis  Paris,  born  1G90,  son  of  an  eminent  and  wealthy 
Paris  lawyer,  imbibed  the  notion  in  childhood  from  his  Jan- 
senist  teachers  that  the  great  interest  of  man  is  to  propitiate 
an  almost  implacable  deity  by  self-inflicted  torture.  He 
abandoned  the  profession  of  the  law,  to  which  his  father  des- 
tined him,  refused  the  rank  and  inheritance  of  eldest  son,  and 
accepted  from  his  father's  large  estate  only  a  small  pension, 
one  fourth  of  his  legal  right.  His  father's  death  setting  him 
1  Histoire  du  Parlement  de  Paris,  par  Voltaire,  chapter  Ixiv. 


262  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

free  from  restraint,  liis  first  care  was  to  disengage  himself 
from  all  worldly  affairs  and  ties.  Part  of  his  inheritance  was 
a  mass  of  silver  plate,  weighing  two  hundred  pounds.  This 
he  sold,  and  divided  the  proceeds  among  the  poor.  He  in- 
herited also  a  quantity  of  linen  and  other  household  stuffs, 
which  his  mother,  according  to  the  provident  custom  of  the 
age,  had  accumulated.  The  linen  he  gave  to  a  number  of 
poor  priests  for  surplices,  and  the  other  fabrics  he  divided 
among  the  poor  families  of  his  parish.  Some  barrels  of  salt 
had  come  to  him,  salt  being  then  a  very  expensive  article  ; 
this  he  distributed  among  the  poor.  Having  thus  disposed  of 
his  superfluous  effects,  and  having  remained  at  home  long 
enough  to  see  his  younger  brother  married  and  settled,  he 
went  forth  to  begin  his  long-desired  life  of  entire  consecration 
to  propitiatory  religion. 

He  retired  to  a  village  near  Chartres,  hired  secluded  apart- 
ments, and  gave  himself  up  to  prayers,  study,  fasting,  and 
self-torture.  All  day  he  remained  alone  in  his  room,  studying 
Hebrew,  reading  theology,  and  praying.  He  wore  a  hair  shirt 
next  his  skin,  and  fasted  on  all  the  appointed  days  most  rigor- 
ously, not  eating  a  morsel  of  food  till  sunset.  On  Sundays 
he  performed,  at  the  request  of  the  parish  priest,  the  duty  of 
catechizing  the  children.  In  winter  he  would  have  no  fire  in 
his  room,  and  when  the  cold  was  too  severe  to  be  borne  he 
merely  covered  his  feet  with  a  hair  cloth. 

He  often  changed  his  place  of  abode,  but  never  his  habits, 
except  that  he  constantly  increased  the  severity  of  his  self-in- 
flicted torments.  Being  intrusted  by  his  parish  priest  with 
the  charge  of  the  young  candidates  for  the  priesthood,  he 
led  them  to  practice  such  extreme  self-denial  that  he  was 
complained  of  to  the  archbishop,  who  was  thus  made  ac- 
quainted with  his  character.  Instead  of  his  reproving  his  ex- 
cessive and  ill-directed  zeal,  the  archbishop  desired  to  reward 
it  by  bestowing  upon  him  the  dignity  of  deacon,  and  held  out 
to  him  the  promise  of  still  further  advancement.  The  zealot 
deemed  himself  unworthy  of  the  honor,  and  long  refused  it. 
His  scruples  being  at  length  overcome,  he  was  ordained,  and 
thus  acquired  the  title  by  which  he  is  now  known.  Other 
ecclesiastical  honors,  though  they  were  often  pressed  upon 
him,  he  declined. 


THE  CONVULSIONIST  MIRACLES.  263 

As  he  advanced  in  life  his  austerities  still  increased,  and  he 
resolved,  at  last,  to  retire  wholly  from  the  haunts  of  men. 
First  he  traveled  on  foot  over  France,  seeking  some  monas- 
tery congenial  to  him.  From  this  journey  he  ingeniously  ex- 
tracted all  the  misery  it  could  be  made  to  yield,  pursuing  his 
weary  way  through  all  kinds  of  weather,  ill  clad,  half  starved, 
and  lodging  in  the  stables  of  the  poorest  inns.  But  in  all  his 
wanderings  he  found  no  retreat  that  promised  sufficient  sever- 
ity, and  he  returned  to  Paris  to  contrive  one  for  himself. 
There  he  withdrew  to  a  mean  and  secluded  abode,  and  set 
about  the  work  of  torturing  himself  to  death  with  renewed 
vigor. 

It  was  his  habit  now  to  fast  during  the  whole  forty  days 
of  Lent  as  rigorously  as  he  had  been  used  to  fast  on  single 
days,  never  eating  until  sunset,  and  then  only  bread  and  water, 
nor  much  of  them.  Toward  the  close  of  the  forty  days  he 
really  suffered  as  much  as  his  heart  could  wish.  He  would 
sometimes  fall  into  convulsions,  and  endured  awful  pangs 
and  spasms,  which  he  attributed  to  the  efforts  of  the  devil  to 
shake  his  purpose.  He  slept  upon  a  straw  mattress,  except 
in  seasons  of  penitence,  when  he  preferred  the  floor.  He  had 
in  his  little  room  a  table,  one  chair,  no  fire-place,  and  he  ate 
nothing  but  bread,  water-cress,  and  other  raw  herbs,  with  the 
occasional  luxury  of  a  hard-boiled  egg  or  a  plate  of  thin  soup 
sent  in  to  Uim  by  his  landlord,  a  poor  lace-maker.  To  still 
further  mortify  himself,  he  bought  a  stocking-frame,  and 
earned  his  livelihood  by  making  stockings,  concealing  from  his 
fellow-lodgers  that  he  possessed  an  independent  income.  His 
landlord,  for  a  considerable  time,  thought  he  was  a  poor  stock- 
ing-weaver, and  it  was  in  compassion  for  his  supposed  poverty 
that  he  sent  him  in  the  soup. 

Having  exhausted,  at  length,  all  the  usual  modes  of  self-sac- 
rifice, he  hit  u.pon  a  new  one  :  he  resolved  to  deny  himself  the 
consQlatio7is  of  religion  itself!  For  two  years  he  abstained 
from  taking  the  communion,  alleging  that  he  was  unworthy ; 
and  it  was  only  at  the  express  command  of  his  ecclesiastical 
superiors  that  he  again  partook  of  it.  Frustrated  thus  in  this 
design  of  tormenting  his  soul,  he  aggravated  the  tortures  of 
his  body,  saying  that,  as  every  part  of  his  body  within  and 
without  was   sinful,  it  was  necessary  that    every  part  of    it 


264  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

should  suffer,  and  suffer  severely.  Now  it  was  that  he  added 
to  his  shirt  of  coarsest  hair  a  girdle  of  iron,  and  to  that  a 
breastplate  of  iron  wire  in  the  form  of  a  heart,  with  points 
of  wire  on  the  side  next  his  flesh  ;  so  that  when,  in  his  pen- 
itential frenzies,  he  beat  his  breast  with  his  hands  the  blood 
flowed. 

The  poor  misguided  man  persevered  in  this  suicidal  course 
till  he  brought  himself  to  death's  door.  When  he  lay  help- 
less upon  his  straw  his  friends  gathered  round  him  and  strove 
to  alleviate  his  condition.  He  steadfastly  refused  their  offers, 
and  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  remonstrance,  blaming  himself 
only  for  not  having  concealed  his  sufferings,  and  saying  that 
if  he  recovered  his  health  he  must  "serve  God"  more 
faithfully  than  he  had  done  before.  He  died  aged  thirty- 
seven,  and  was  buried  in  a  cemetery  of  his  native  city.  He 
died  of  self-mortification  at  about  the  age  when  many  young 
men  (Byron  and  Burns,  for  example)  die  of  self-indulgence, 
—  a  meaner  and  madder  kind  of  suicide  than  his. 

It  was  not  till  after  his  death  that  the  events  occurred 
which  have  caused  this  poor  man  to  be  so  long  remembered. 
The  more  ignorant  Jansenists  of  Paris,  hearing  of  the  man- 
ner of  his  life  and  death,  regarded  him  as  a  saint,  and  looked 
upon  his  burial-place  as  holy  ground. 

I  once  asked  a  distinguished  judge  of  New  York  what  he 
had  learned  by  sitting  thirty  years  upon  the  bench.  He  an- 
swered promptly,  "  The  difficulty  of  arriving  at  truth  through 
human  testimony.'" 

A  catalogue  of  the  miracles  wrought  at  the  tomb  of  Deacon 
Paris,  in  three  volumes  folio,  was  published  by  a  respectable 
priest,  each  miracle  being  supported  by  sworn  testimony,  taken 
before  notaries,  and  certified  in  proper  form.  This  testimony, 
upon  many  of  the  cases,  is  of  such  a  nature  and  is  so  abundant 
in  quantity  that  it  would  command  a  verdict,  as  the  learned 
judge  himself  would  charge.  To  illustrate  the  fallibility  of 
human  evidence,  I  will  give  a  few  examples  drawn  from  this 
ponderous  work. 

Deacon  Paris  died  on  the  1st  of  May,  1727.  A  woman,  aged 
sixty-two,  had  met  and  exchanged  civilities  with  the  holy  man. 
For  many  years  she  had  had  a  withered  arm,  which  was  so 
useless  that  she  was  accustomed  to  hang  it  in  a  sling,  while 


THE   CONVULSIONIST   MIRACLES.  265 

she  exercised  her  vocation  of  silk-winder.  Hearing  of  the 
death  of  the  venerated  deacon,  she  determined  to  attend  his 
funeral,  and  to  pray  at  his  grave  for  the  restoration  of  her 
arm.  Entering  the  apartment  where  lay  the  emaciated  body 
prepared  for  the  tomb,  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  lifted  the  cloth 
which  covered  the  feet,  and  kissed  them,  saying,  "  Blessed 
saint,  pray  the  Lord  to  cure  me,  if  it  is  his  will  that  I  re- 
main upon  earth.  Your  prayers  will  be  heard ;  mine  are 
not."  When  the  body  was  placed  upon  the  bier,  she  leaned 
forward,  and  rubbed  her  arm  with  the  pall.  Having  seen  the 
corpse  deposited  in  the  tomb,  she  returned  to  her  house  and 
resumed  her  usual  employment.  What  was  her  astonishment 
to  discover  that  she  had  no  longer  any  need  of  her  sling,  and 
could  use  one  arm  witli  the  same  facility  as  the  other.  The 
withered  member  had  regained  its  former  roundness  and 
vigor,  and  she  could  lift  with  it  as  much  as  ever  she  could ; 
nor  had  she  ever  after  any  return  of  the  malady.  The  narra- 
tive of  her  cure,  which  she  made  on  oath  before  a  notary,  is 
full  and  particular. 

The  fame  of  this  miracle  being  spread  abroad,  other 
afflicted  persons  resorted  to  the  tomb  to  avail  themselves  of 
its  mysterious  virtues.  A  Spanish  nobleman,  member  of  the 
Royal  Council  of  Spain,  had  sent  his  son  to  Paris  to  complete 
his  education.  This  young  man,  by  a  succession  of  accidents, 
lost  the  use  of  one  of  his  eyes,  and  finally  the  eye  itself  oozed 
away.  The  doctors  having  abandoned  his  case  in  despair,  he 
repaired  to  the  tomb  of  Deacon  Paris,  and  there  prayed  most 
fervently  for  the  restoration  of  his  eye.  His  cure,  though  not 
sudden,  was  complete.  He  placed  upon  his  eye  a  small  piece 
of  the  shirt  in  which  the  deacon  had  died,  and  instantly  felt 
some  relief.  That  evening,  upon  going  to  sleep,  he  again 
placed  the  relic  over  his  eye.  "  In  the  silence  and  secrecy  of 
the  night,"  says  our  chronicler,  "  the  cure  began,  and  when 
the  young  man  woke,  at  three  in  the  morning,  his  eye  was 
perfectly  restored,  for  he  could  see  through  the  window  of 
liis  room  the  houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street !  "  He 
rose  joyful  from  his  bed,  threw  off  his  bandages,  and  hastened 
to  the  tomb  to  return  thanks. 

Not  only  is  this  miraculous  cure  supported  by  an  abun- 
dance of  sworn  testimony,  but  I  have  before  me  a  letter,  writ- 


266  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIHE. 

ten  by  Charles  Rollin,  the  celebrated  historian,  in  which  he 
expresses  his  entire  belief  in  the  miracle.  Dr.  Rollin  says  : 
"  I  saw  the  sad  condition  to  which  Don  Alpbonse  was  reduced 
by  the  loss  of  one  eye  and  the  malady  of  the  other,  and  I  was 
agreeably  surprised  to  see  the  sudden  and  perfect  change  which 
occurred  in  it,  when  every  one  despaired  of  its  cure.  This 
testimony  I  render  with  joy  to  the  singular  grace  which  God 
has  shown  to  a  young  man  whom  I  loved  the  more  tenderly 
because  Providence  himself  seemed  to  have  consigned  him  to 
my  care." 

Several  volumes  could  be  filled  with  similar  narratives,  some 
of  which  are  more  wonderful  and  incredible  even  than  this. 
There  was,  for  example,  an  old  lady  of  sixty-nine,  swollen  to  a 
monstrous  size  by  dropsy,  covered  with  ulcers,  an  object  of 
horror  to  every  beholder.  There  are  one  hundred  pages  of 
testimony,  much  of  it  given  by  surgeons  of  reputation,  to  the 
effect  that  this  woman  was  instantly  and  completely  cured  by 
praying  uj)on  the  tomb  of  Deacon  Paris.  Many  persons,  born 
humpbacked  and  otherwise  distorted,  left  the  tomb  walking 
erect,  and  with  vivacity  more  than  usual. 

As  the  celebrity  of  the  tomb  increased,  the  concourse  of  the 
sick,  the  lame,  the  halt,  the  blind,  and  the  dumb  became  such 
as  to  incommode  the  neighborhood.  The  whole  cemetery  and 
the  neighboring  streets  wei*e  crowded  with  women  and  men  of 
all  ages,  afHicted  with  all  maladies.  Here  were  seen  men  writh- 
ing upon  the  ground  in  epileptic  fits ;  there  were  others  in  a 
kind  of  convulsive  ecstasy,  swallowing  pebbles,  earth,  pieces 
of  glass,  and  even  burning  coals  !  Yonder  were  women  beside 
themselves,  standing  upon  their  heads,  while  other  women, 
prostrate  upon  the  earth,  called  upon  the  by-standers  to  relieve 
their  agony  by  striking  them  heavy  blows  upon  the  body. 
Some  women  danced,  others  leaped  into  the  air,  others  twisted 
their  bodies  in  a  thousand  extravagant  ways,  others  assumed 
postures  designed  to  represent  scenes  of  the  Passion.  Some 
of  them  sang ;  others  groaned,  grunted,  barked,  mewed,  hissed, 
declaimed,  prophesied.  The  dancing,  conducted  by  a  priest, 
was  the  favorite  exercise,  and  many  of  the  lame,  it  is  said, 
who  had  not  stood  upon  their  feet  for  years,  found  themselves 
able  to  join  in  it  with  great  activity. 

Scenes  of  this  nature  were  daily  exhibited  in  the  cemetery 


THE   CONVULSIONIST   MIKACLES.  267 

for  the  space  of  five  years.  At  the  end  of  that  period  the 
extravagance  had  risen  to  such  a  height  that  both  the  church 
and  the  kingdom  were  scandalized  by  it.  The  king  then  in- 
terfered, and  published  an  edict,  which  ordered  the  cemetery 
to  be  closed,  and  forbade  assemblages  of  people  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  morning  after  this  edict  appeared,  one  of  the 
wits  of  Paris  wrote  upon  the  gate  of  the  cemetery  the  well- 
known  epigram,  "  By  order  of  the  king  :  God  is  forbidden 
to  perform  miracles  in  this  place." 

But  the  madness  continued.  The  earth  of  the  cemetery 
and  the  water  of  a  well  near  by  were  conveyed  to  private 
apartments,  and  there  the  miracles  were  renewed.  In  all  the 
history  of  human  folly  there  is  nothing  so  extravagant  as  the 
scenes  which  now  occurred.  It  became  the  mode  for  the  sick 
to  fall  into  the  most  violent  convulsions,  during  which  they 
were  subjected  to  treatment  still  more  violent.  One  or  two 
examples  out  of  a  thousand  will  sufiice.  A  young  girl  of  sev- 
enteen, afflicted  with  a  chronic  disease,  was  laid  upon  the  floor. 
Twenty-three  grown  persons  placed  one  of  their  feet  upon  her 
body,  and  pressed  with  all  their  force  upon  it,  —  an  operation 
which,  as  she  said,  gave  her  the  most  exquisite  delight,  and 
effected  a  total  cure.  Other  women,  stretched  upon  the  floor 
in  convulsions,  were  beaten  with  an  oaken  club  on  every  part 
of  the  body,  and  with  aU  the  force  of  a  strong  man,  to  their 
great  joy  and  lasting  relief.  A  witness  swears  that  he  saw 
one  poor  woman  receive,  without  harm,  two  thousand  blows, 
any  one  of  which  would  have  felled  an  ox.  Other  witnesses 
testify  that  five  strong  men  endeavored  to  thrust  a  sword  into 
the  body  of  one  of  the  convulsed,  but  could  not.  Sometimes 
swords  were  thrust  into  the  body,  but  the  wound  immediately 
healed  without  leaving  a  scar.  One  woman  received,  in  one 
night,  thirty  thousand  blows  of  the  fist  from  relays  of  strong 
men  ;  another  was  beaten  for  fifty-five  minutes  with  a  huge 
oaken  club,  at  the  rate  of  thirty  blows  a  minute,  without  in- 
curring the  slightest  harm.  All  of  which  is  supported  by  a 
superabundance  of  sworn,  positive,  and  detailed  testimony  from 
persons  of  repute. 

The  climax  of  this  impious  and  wonderful  folly  was  reached 
when  they  began  to  parody  the  crucifixion.  The  following  ac- 
count of  one  of  these  scenes  rests  upon  an  amount  of  evidence 


268  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

which  would  convict  a  man  of  murder  before  any  of  our  courts. 
If  the  jury  believed  one  half  of  the  witnesses,  they  would  be 
compelled  to  convict.  A  woman  called  Sister  Frances,  aged 
fifty-five,  who  had  been  subject  to  convulsions  for  twenty-seven 
years,  was  crucified  three  times.  On  the  last  occasion,  the 
ceremony  began  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  by  stretching 
her  upon  a  cross  in  the  ordinary  form,  laid  upon  the  floor.  A 
priest  drove  a  nail  through  the  palm  of  her  left  hand  into  the 
wood  of  the  cross,  and  then  let  her  alone  for  two  minutes. 
Then,  pouring  a  little  water  upon  the  right  hand,  he  nailed 
that  to  the  cross.  The  woman,  who  was  in  a  convulsion, 
appeared  to  suffer  severely,  though  she  neither  sighed  nor 
groaned  ;  her  flushed  face  alone  indicating  anguish.  Thus  she 
remained  for  twenty-eight  minutes  (these  chroniclers  are  very 
exact),  at  the  end  of  which  time  they  nailed  her  two  feet  to  a 
shelf  upon  the  cross.  The  nails,  we  are  informed,  were  square 
in  shape,  and  six  inches  long.  No  blood  flowed  from  any  of 
these  wounds,  excej^t  a  very  little  from  one  of  her  feet. 

Having  thus  completed  the  nailing,  they  let  her  remain  fif- 
teen minutes  longer,  and  then  gradually  raised  one  end  of  the 
cross,  supporting  it  first  upon  a  chair,  and  finally  leaning  it 
against  the  wall.  Here  it  was  allowed  to  remain  for  half  an 
hour,  during  which  tbey  read  a  chapter  from  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John,  which  the  woman  appeared  to  understand  and  enjoy. 
Next  they  placed  upon  her  head  a  crown  of  sharp  iron  wires, 
to  represent  the  crown  of  thorns.  She  was  nailed  to  the  cross 
for  three  houis,  and  then  the  nails  were  gradually  drawn  out, 
which  appeared  to  cause  much  suffering.  "  One  of  the  nails," 
saj's  the  narrator,  '•''  I  put  in  my  "pockety  and  I  have  it  now.'''' 
The  hands  of  the  woman  bled  profusely,  but  when  tbey  had 
been  washed  with  a  little  water,  she  rose,  warmly  embraced 
one  of  her  friends,  and  appeared  to  have  undergone  little  in- 
jury. The  wounds  were  rubbed  with  a  small  cross,  which  had 
been  sanctified  at  the  tomb  of  Deacon  Paris,  and  they  imme- 
diately closed.  This  story  is  related  at  such  length,  and  is 
supported  by  such  a  number  of  affidavits,  that  it  occupies 
nearly  one  hundred  folio  pages. ^ 
r  Both  the  brothers  Arouet,  I  repeat,  witnessed  these  events. 

^  Histoire  des  Miracules  et  des  Convulsionaires  de  Saint-Mcdard,  par  P.  F.  Ma- 
thieu.    Paris,  1864. 


J 


THE  CONVULSIONIST  MIRACLES.  269 

The  impression  they  made  upon  the  mind  bf  Voltaire  is  re- 
vealed to  us  in  several  of  his  works.  He  burlesques  them  in 
"  La  Pucelle  ;  "  he  gravely  describes  them  in  his  histories  ;  he 
alludes  to  them  in  his  letters  ;  and  in  all  he  regards  them  with 
as  much  respect  as  we  do  the  hideous  and  fantastic  tricks  by 
which  the  Indian  and  the  African  medicine  men  impose  upon 
the  credulity  of  their  tribes.  Armand,  on  the  contrary,  beheld 
them  with  abject  faith. I  He  compiled  a  collection  of  the  mira- 
cles, which  his  brother  inherited  and  kept  all  his  life,  and 
which  is  said  still  to  exist  at  Petersburg,  Avith  the  rest  of 
the  Voltaire  manuscripts  bought  by  Catherine  II.  He  de- 
lighted to  attest  the  miracles  both  as  notar}'  and  as  man. 
Among  the  great  number  of  affidavits  appended  to  the  case  of 
Madeleine  Durand,  a  young  girl  miraculously  cured  of  a 
"frightful  cancer  in  the  mouth,"  is  one  by  Armand  Arouet. 
This  dreadful  cancer,  we  are  assured  by  the  historian  of  the 
miracles,  Carre  de  Montgeron,  only  began  in  the  mouth,  and 
gradually  infected  all  the  blood,  wasted  the  body  to  a  skele- 
ton, distorted  the  face  out  of  all  knowledge,  and  corrupted  the 
air  to  a  distance  of  ten  paces.  Armand  Arouet  swore  to  the 
effect  following  :  — 

"  I  have  seen  her  often  fall  iu  convulsions  ;  and  then  she  seemed  to 
be  quite  out  of  her  senses,  conscious  of  nothing  that  passed  in  her 
presence.  Possessed  by  various  sentiments  that  sprung  up  in  her 
mind,  she  gave  expression  to  them  in  short  and  most  fervent  prayers. 
In  those  same  convulsions  I  have  seen  her  throw  herself  down,  and 
strike  the  floor  again  and  again  with  her  cancer  very  Jiard,  and  rub  it 
against  the  tiles  with  all  her  might.  Sometimes  she  begged  one  of  the 
persons  present  to  put  his  hands  upon  her  left  cheek  and  lean  upon  it 
with  all  his  weight,  the  cancer  being  in  contact  with  the  floor.  I  have 
seen  her  cut  off  a  piece  of  her  cancer  with  a  pair  of  scissors.  Her 
blood  then  flowed  abundantly,  but  as  soon  as  she  poured  some  water 
from  the  well  near  the  tomb  of  M.  Paris  upon  the  wound,  at  that  very 
instant  the  blood  was  stanched.  I  saw  that  but  once,  but  I  know  that 
a  great  number  of  persons  will  render  the  same  testimony,  who  have 
also  seen  it.  Having  learned  that  the  most  skillful  surgeons  of  Or- 
leans, where  tliis  convulsionist  was  born,  had  pronounced  her  malady 
incurable,  and  as  tlieir  opinion  was  confirmed  by  that  of  the  most  cele- 
brated surgeons  of  Paris,  I  ceased  to  visit  her  assiduously,  and  awaited 
the  event.  At  the  beginning  of  1735  I  saw  her  perfectly  cured,  and 
have  seen  her  several  times  since ;  to-day,  also  (this  June  8, 1736),  she 


270  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

has  been  presented  to  me.  The  convulsions  following  immediately 
upon  the  invocation  of  the  Blessed  One  \_le  Blenheureux,  meaning 
Paris],  as  I  have  myself  vpitnessed ;  her  cancer  having  disappeared 
totally,  without  leaving  upon  her  cheek,  inside  or  outside,  any  mark 
of  iron  or  fire ;  the  perfect  health  which  she  now  enjoys,  —  all  con- 
vinces me  that  we  can  assign  a  cure  so  miraculous  to  no  other  agent 
than  God." 

Thus  Armand  Arouet,  brother  of  Voltaire  ! 

The  brothers  probably  conversed  together  upon  the  con- 
vulsionist  miracles ;  and  perhaps  Voltaire  had  Armand  in  his 
mind  when  he  wrote,  many  years  after,  in  the  "  Philosoph- 
ical Dictionary,"  article  "  Fanaticism  :  "  "  When  once  fanati- 
cism has  gangrened  a  brain,  the  malady  is  almost  incurable. 
I  have  seen  convulsionists  who,  in  speaking  of  the  miracles 
of  Saint  Paris,  grew  warm  by  degrees  ;  their  eyes  flashed 
fire  ;  their  whole  body  trembled ;  their  fury  distorted  their 
countenances  ;  and  they  would  have  killed  any  one  who  had 
contradicted  them.  Yes  ;  I  have  seen  those  convulsionists. 
I  have  seen  them  twist  their  limbs  and  foam  at  the  mouth. 
They  cried,  '  We  must  have  blood  I '  " 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE  TENDER  "  ZAiRE." 

It  was  from  a  mansion  near  the  Palais-Royal  that  Voltaire 
surveyed  life  at  this  period.  Not  his  own  mansion,  of  com-se. 
Since  his  return  from  England,  in  March,  1729,  until  near 
the  close  of  1731,  he  had  had  no  fixed  abode  ;  but  soon  after 
coming  from  his  hiding-place  near  Rouen  he  found  luxurious 
quarters  in  the  hotel  of  the  Countess  de  Fontaine-Martel,  a 
merry  old  widow,  with  a  well  appointed  house,  forty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  and  the  easy  morals  of  a  Ninon  de  Lenclos. 
Being  at  this  time  "  past  love,  through  age  and  erysipelas," 
she  gave  a  nightly  supper  to  the  amusing  people  of  the  day, 
among  whom,  if  we  may  judge  of  the  specimens  of  her  talk 
reported  by  Voltaire,  she  surpassed  Ninon  herself  in  the  license 
which  she  allowed  her  tongue.  It  would  be  hard  to  decide 
which  were  farther  from  the  right  way,  —  this  witty  and  auda- 
cious old  countess,  or  the  serious  women  who  groveled  at  the 
tomb  of  Deacon  Paris. 

From  being  a  frequent  guest  at  her  suppers,  Voltaire  at 
length  yielded  to  her  desire  that  he  should  occupy  rooms  in 
her  house  ;  and  there,  during  the  brief  remainder  of  her  life, 
he  lived  and  reigned,  as  though  he  had  been  the  natural  lord 
of  the  mansion.  As  he  himself  remarked,  it  was  precisely  as 
if  he  had  been  the  master  of  a  magnificent  hotel  and  forty  thou- 
sand francs  a  year.  He  presided  at  her  suppers  ;  he  conducted 
her  private  theatricals  ;  he  tried  his  plays  upon  her  stage  ;  he 
enjoyed  her  box  at  the  opera ;  he  used  her  coach ;  he  rode 
upon  her  horses, — and  paid  for  all  by  an  epistle  or  two  in 
verse,  which  fill  two  or  three  pages  of  a  volume,  and  preserve 
her  name.  A  lucky  old  reprobate  she  was  to  have  such  an 
inmate.  From  one  of  these  epistles  posterity  learns  that 
"  Martel  "  was  the  exact  opposite  of  a  saint  of  the  kind  then  in 
vogue ;  since  she  preferred  long,  merry,  and  tranquil  suppers 


272  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE, 

to  pious  vigils,  and  chose  Voltaire  for  the  director  of  her  con- 
science instead  of  a  Jansenist  priest.  "  In  her  abode  reigned 
Liberty,  decent,  tolerant,  and  serene,  conjointly  with  her  sis- 
ter Gayety,  never  bitter  in  her  satire,  neither  prudish  nor 
dissolute." 

The  epistle  does  not  quite  accord  with  prosaic  accounts  of  the 
lady's  character  or  manners.  In  a  letter  written  in  1767, 
Voltaire  himself  gives  a  taste  of  her  :  "  No  more  tragedies  from 
me I  console  myself  in  forming  young  people.  Ma- 
dame de  Fontaine-Martel  used  to  say  that  when  one  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  no  longer  ....  it  was  necessary  to  be 
procuress."  The  lady,  however,  used  the  simpler  language  of 
the  tap-room. 

In  her  hotel  was  first  performed  his  new  tragedy  of  "  Eri- 
phile,"  where  it  received  the  applause  bestowed  upon  drawing- 
room  theatricals.  Fourteen  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  pro- 
duction of  "  Q^dipe,"  and  never  since  had  the  author  tasted 
the  sweet  delirium  of  an  unequivocal  dramatic  triumph.  Total 
failures  had  alternated  with  successes  of  esteem,  which  tanta- 
lize, not  satisfy;  and  the  growing  popularity  of  "Charles 
XII."  seems  but  to  have  pi'ovoked  his  desire  to  prove  him- 
self equal  to  works  more  difficult.  Unfriendly  critics,  too, 
began  to  taunt  and  disparage ;  the  modern  reviewer  was 
developing ;  literary  periodicals  were  acquiring  vogue  and 
power  ;  and  this  author  began  now  to  experience  the  bondage 
of  a  great  and  dazzling  celebrity.  What  could  be  esteemed 
literary  glory  in  Paris  compared  with  dramatic  success  ?  A 
truly  excellent  acting-play  will  perhaps  forever  remain  the 
supreme  product  of  human  genius,  as  it  is  also  the  one 
which  gives  the  greatest  rapture  to  the  greatest  number. 
In  France,  a  genuine  dramatic  success  was  then  very  much 
what  it  now  is  ;  and  our  susceptible  poet  evidently  felt  that 
his  other  glories  only  made  this  supreme  glory  the  more 
necessai'y  to  him.  His  letters  show  how  ardenth'  he  strove  to 
perfect  his  "  Eriphile,  Queen  of  Ai-gos;"  correcting,  chang- 
ing, rewriting,  reading  it  to  friends,  and,  finally,  trying  it 
upon  a  private  stage.  The  play  slightly  resembles  "  Hamlet  " 
in  its  plot,  and  he  ventured  to  introduce  the  ghost  of  a  mur- 
dered king  upon  the  stage,  who  appears  in  a  temple,  and  there 
calls  solemnly  upon  his  son  to  avenge  his  death.     The  queen, 


THE   TENDER   "ZAIRE."  273 

too,  was  a  party  consenting  to  the  murder,  and  in  a  few 
other  particulars  we  are  reminded  of  "  Hamlet."  Voltaire  had 
high  Lopes  of  his  ghost,  remembering,  doubtless,  the  thrill 
and  awful  hush  which  the  appearance  of  Hamlet's  ghost  never 
failed  to  cause  in  London,  even  when  not  well  played.  He 
dared  not  attempt  a  long  scene  of  the  kind,  but  showed  his 
ghost  only  for  a  few  moments,  in  the  fourth  act,  just  as  the 
guilty  pair  were  about  to  enter  the  temple  to  be  married.  The 
temple  opens ;  the  ghost  is  revealed  in  a  menacing  posture. 
The  guilty  mother,  her  paramour,  and  the  innocent  son  stand 
appalled. 

Ghost.  —  "  Hold,  wretch ! " 

Queen.  —  "  My  husband's  self !     Where  am  I  ?  " 

Sox.  —  "  Dread  spirit,  what  god  causes  thee  to  leave  the  infernal 
shades?  What  is  the  blood  that  flows  from  thee.''  And  what  art 
thou  ?  " 

Ghost.  —  "  Thy  king  !     If  thou  aspirest  to  reign,  stop,  obey  me." 

Son.  —  "I  will.     My  arm  is  readj^     What  must  1  do?  " 

Ghost.  —  "  Avenge  me  upon  my  tomb." 

Son.  —  "  Upon  whom  ?  " 

Ghost.  —  "  Upon  thy  mother." 

Son.  —  "My  mother?  AVhat  dost  thou  say  ?  O  uncertain  oracle  ! 
But  hell  withdraws  him  from  my  distracted  gaze.  The  gods  shut  their 
temple." 

The  edifice  then  closes,  and  the  ghost  is  no  more  seen. 

"  Eriphile  "  was  not  successful.  The  poor  ghost  had  to  be 
exhibited  upon  a  stage  half  filled  with  Paris  dandies,  and 
could  not  succeed  in  appalling  either  them  or  the  more  distant 
spectators.  The  piece  was  not  absolutely  damned,  but  it  did 
not  interest,  and  it  was  soon  withdrawn.  The  author  rewrote 
three  acts,  and  prefixed  a  very  taking  prologue.  The  prologue 
was  a  hit,  but  the  play  still  going  heavily  he  withdrew  it 
from  the  theatre  and,  finally,  even  from  the  printer  ;  and,  years 
after,  as  his  manner  was,  used  some  of  the  material  and  some 
of  the  verses  in  his  tragedy  of  "  Semiramis." 

Friends  interposed  their  advice  on  this  occasion.  The  baf- 
fled author  in  old  age  used  to  speak  of  a  certain  supper  at 
Madame  de  Tencin's,  where  Fontenelle  and  other  persons  of 
note  in  literature  joined  in  friendly  remonstrance  against  hia 
persisting  further  in  a  career  for  which  he  was  evidently  not 

VOL.  I.  18 


N 


274  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

made.  One  success,  two  failures,  two  escapes  !  Thus  the  ac- 
count stood  so  far  ;  and  who  could  say  how  mucli  of  the  brill- 
iant success  of  "  ffidipe  "  was  due  to  Sophocles,  how  much  to 
accident,  how  much  to  Voltaire  ?  La  Harpe  once  asked  him 
what  reply  he  made  to  the  remarks  of  his  friends  at  Ma- 
dame de  Tencin's.  "  None,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  brought  out 
'  Zaire.' "  i 

"  Zaire  "  was  a  new  arid  captivating  subject,  suggested  per- 
haps by  Shakespeare's  "  Othello,"  as  "  Eriphile  "  seems  a  faint 
reminiscence  of  "  Hamlet."  He  dashed  at  it  with  amazing  im- 
petuosity, as  if  inspired  by  failure.  During  his  late  residence 
at  Rouen  he  had  renewed  his  school-boy  intimacy  with  Cide- 
ville  and  Formont,  who  retained  in  maturity  the  love  of  liter- 
ature which  they  had  imbibed  at  the  College  Louis-le-Grand. 
He  made  them  now  his  literary  confidants,  and  they  in  return 
gave  him  plenty  of  advice,  and  sometimes  came  from  Rouen 
to  Paris  to  witness  the  performance  of  his  plays.  He  wrote 
tumultuous  letters  to  these  sympathizing  friends  this  summer  ; 
sometimes  to  one,  sometimes  to  both  at  once.  It  is  in  such 
letters  as  these  that  we  see  both  the  mode  and  the  motive  of 
his  labors.  Here  is  the  history  of  the  new  tragedy  in  a  few 
sentences  from  them  :  — 

[To  Cideville,  May  29th.]  "I  have  corrected  in  '  i^riphile'  all  the 
faults  which  we  remarked.  Scarcely  was  this  task  finished,  when,  in 
order  to  be  able  to  review  my  work  with  less  self-love,  and  to  give 
myself  time  to  forget  it,  I  began  another,  and  I  have  taken  a  firm 
resolution  not  to  cast  my  eyes  upon  '  firiphile '  until  the  new  tragedy 
is  done.  This  play  will  be  made  for  the  heart,  as  much  as  '  Eriphile  ' 
was  for  the  imagination.  The  scene  is  to  be  laid  in  a  very  singular 
place,  and  the  action  will  pass  between  Turks  and  Christians.  I  shall 
depict  their  manners  to  the  utmost  of  my  ability,  and  I  shall  try  to 
throw  into  the  work  all  that  the  Christian  religion  has  of  most  pa- 
thetic and  most  interesting,  and  all  that  love  knows  of  most  tender 
and  cruel.     Here  is  work  for  six  months." 

[To  Formont,  on  the  same  day.]  "  Every  one  here  reproaches  me 
that  I  do  not  put  more  love  into  my  pieces.  There  shall  he  love 
enough  this  time  I  swear  to  you,  and  not  gallantry  either.  My  de- 
sire is  that  there  may  be  nothing  so  Turkish,  so  Christian,  so  amorous, 
so  tender,  so  infuriate,  as  that  which  I  am  now  putting  into  verse  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  public.     I  have  the  honor  already  to  have  done  an 

1  9  Cours  de  Litterature,  139. 


1 


THE   TENDER   "ZAIRE."  275 

act  of  it.  Either  I  am  much  deceived,  or  this  will  be  the  most  pe- 
culiar piece  we  have  upon  our  stage.  The  names  of  Montmorenci,  of 
Saint  Louis,  of  Saladin,  of  Jesus,  of  Mahomet,  will  be  in  it.  There 
will  be  mention  of  the  Seine  and  of  Jordan,  of  Paris  and  of  Jerusa- 
lem.    We  shall  love,  we  shall  baptize,  we  shall  kill,  and  I  will  send 

you  the  outline  as  soon  as  it  is  done Don't  ask  me  for  news  of 

the  parliament.     I  know,  and  wish  to  know,  only  les  belles-lettres." 

[To  Formont,  June  2oth.]  "  Hearty  thanks,  mv  dear  friend,  for  the 
good  advice  you  give  me  upon  the  plan  of  a  tragedy  ;  but  it  came  too 
late.  The  tragedy  was  done.  It  cost  me  but  twenty-two  days. 
Never  have  I  worked  with  such_swiftness.     The  subject  drew  me  on, 

and  the  piece  made  itself At  present  I  am  having  it  copied  ; 

as  soon  as  I  have  a  copy  ready,  it  shall  start  for  Rouen,  and  go  to 
Messieurs  de  Formont  and  Cideville.  Scarcely  had  I  written  the  last 
verse  of  my  Turco-Christian  j^iece  than  I  took  up  '  Eriphile '  again." 

[To  Cideville,  June  27th.]  "  A  man  just  finishing  a  new  tragedy  has 
not  time  to  write  long  letters,  my  amiable  Cideville  ;  but  every  scene 
of  the  piece  was  a  letter  which  I  wrote  to  you,  and  I  said  to  myself 
continually,  '  Will  my  tender  and  susceptible  friend  Cideville  approve 
this  situation  or  this  sentiment  ?  Shall  I  make  him  shed  tears  ?  '  At 
length,  after  having  rajiidiy  written  my  work,  in  order  the  sooner  to 
send  it  to  you,  I  read  it  to  the  actors." 

[August  25th.  To  both.]  "  My  dear  and  amiable  critics,  I  wish  that 
you  could  be  witnesses  of  the  success  of  '  Zaire  ; '  you  would  see  that 
your  advice  was  not  useless,  and  that  there  was  very  little  of  it  which 
I  did  not  profit  by.  Permit  me,  my  dear  Cideville,  to  express  to  you 
freely  the  pleasure  I  enjoy  in  seeing  the  success  of  a  work  which  you 
approved.  My  satisfaction  augments  in  communicating  it  to  you. 
Never  piece  was  so  well  played  as  '  Zaire  '  at  the  fourth  representation. 
I  wished  you  there  ;  you  would  have  seen  that  the  public  did  not  hate 
your  friend.  I  appeared  in  a  box,  and  the  whole  pit  clapped  me.  I 
blushed,  I  hid  myself ;  but  I  should  be  a  hypocrite  if  I  did  not  con- 
fess to  you  that  I  was  sensibly  touched.  It  is  sweet  not  to  be  without 
honor  in  one's  own  country  :  I  am  sure  you  will  love  me  the  more  for 
the  avowal.  But,  messieurs,  send  me  back  '  Eriphile,'  which  I  can- 
not do  without,  and  which  is  going  to  be  played  at  Fontainebleau. 
Moil  Dieu  !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  choose  an  interesting  subject !  '  Eri- 
phile '  is  far  better  written  than  '  Zaire  ; '  but  all  the  ornaments,  all 
the  spirit  and  all  the  force  of  poetry  are  not  worth  (so  people  say) 
one  touch  of  sentiment." 

/^  The  new  tragedy  had  indeed  all  the   success  wliich  a  play 
can  have  with  the   play-going  public.       On   the   first  night, 


276  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIKE. 

August  13,  1732,  the  pit,  it  is  true,  was  a  little  refractory  at 
times :  now  tittering  at  a  hasty  verse  ;  now  half  inclined  to 
rebel  against  innovation  ;  now  almost  laughing  at  an  effect 
that  missed  fire.  Colley  Gibber  records  an  anecdote  of  this 
stormy  first  night,  related  to  him  by  an  English  barrister  Avho 
was  present.  During  the  delivery  of  a  soliloquy  by  Mademoi- 
selle Gaussin,  the  Englishman  was  seized  with  such  a  violent  fit 
of  coughing  as  to  compel  the  lady  to  pause  for  several  seconds, 
which  drew  upon  him  the  eyes  of  the  whole  audience.  A 
French  gentleman,  sitting  near,  leaned  over  and  asked  him 
if  Mademoiselle  Gaussin  had  given  him  any  particular  of- 
fense, since  he  took  so  public  an  occasion  to  resent  it.  The 
cougher  protested  that  he  admired  the  actress  too  much  to 
disoblige  her  in  any  way,  and  would  rather  leave  the  theatre 
than  disturb  her  again. ^ 
I  Audiences  then,  according  to  Gibber,  were  inclined  to  be 
/  despotic,  and  were  most  prompt  to  resent  the  slightest  de- 
'  parture  from  usage,  whether  before  or  behind  the  foot-lights. 
He  says  that  he  saw  a  play  at  the  Theatre  Francais  inter- 
rupted for  several  minutes  by  the  audience  crying  Place  a 
la  dame  !  to  a  gentleman  in  the  second  tier,  who  was  sitting  in 
front  of  the  box,  so  as  to  obscure  the  view  of  a  lady  behind 
him. 

For  a  short  time  the  fate  of  the  tender  "  Zaire  "  was  in  doubt 
before  that  turbulent  and  tyrannical  tribunal,  the  parto-re. 
But  the  pathos  of  the  chief  scenes  subdued  all  hearts  at 
length.  The  author  on  the  following  days  removed  the 
more  obvious  blemishes,  and  "Zaire  "  took  its  place  as  a  public 
favorite,  which  it  retains  to  this  day.  After  a  first  run  of 
nine  nights,  the  summer  season  closed  ;  but,  being  resumed 
in  the  autumn,  it  had  twenty-one  representations,  and  con- 
tinued to  be  reproduced  from  time  to  time.  It  was  j^erformed 
before  the  king  and  queen  at  Fontainebleau  ;  it  was  trans- 
lated into  English,  and  given  wdth  applause  in  London  ;  and, 
finally,  being  published  "  with  privilege,"  was  spread  abroad 
over  Europe.  He  dedicated  the  printed  edition  to  his  English 
friend,  Falkener,  thus  :  "  To  M.  Falkener,  English  merchant ; 
since  ambassador  at  Gonstantinople."  He  added,  as  was  his 
wont,  a  dedicatory  epistle,  in  mingled  prose  and  verse,  in 
1  Gibber's  Apology,  London,  1740,  page  482. 


"THE   TENDER   ZAIRE."  277 

which  he  said  various  things  that  he  wished  his  own  country- 
men to  consider  : — 

"  You  are  an  Englishman,  my  dear  friend,  and  I  was  born  in 
France ;  but  those  who  love  the  arts  are  all  fellow-citizens.  Honest 
people  who  think  have  very  much  the  same  principles,  and  compose 

but   one    republic I  offer,  then,  this    tragedy  to  you  as  my 

countryman  in  literature  and  as  my  intimate  friend.  At  the  same 
time,  I  take  pleasure  in  being  able  to  say  to  my  own  nation  in  what 
estimation  merchants  are  held  among  you  ;  how  much  respect  is  felt 
for  a  profession  which  makes  the  greatness  of  the  state,  and  with  what 
superiority  some  of  you  represent  their  country  in  parliament.  I 
know  well  that  this  profession  is  despised  by  our  petits-maitres  ;  but 
you  know  also  that  our  petits-mailres  and  yours  are  the  most  ridicu- 
lous species  that  creep  with  pride  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth." 

He  extols  again,  above  all  things  else,  the  happy  liberty  of 
thought  enjoyed  in  England,  which,  he  says,  communicated 
itself  to  his  own  mind  whenever  he  associated  with  English- 
men.    "  My  ideas  are  bolder  when  I  am  with  you." 

This  was  truly  the  case,  as  was  shown  by  the  two  plays, 
*'Eriphile"  and  "Zaire,"  both  of  which  were  written  with  a 
certain  new  audacity  and  spirit,  derived,  in  part,  from  Shake- 
speare. Zaire  was  a  Christian  captive  in  Jerusalem,  reared 
in  ignorance  of  her  faith  and  country,  and  beloved  by  the 
Soudan,  the  Mahometan  ruler  of  the  region.  She  warmly 
returned  his  passion  ;  and  the  play  opens  near  the  hour  fixed 
for  their  union.  But  on  that  fatal  day  she  discovers  her 
origin,  meets  her  aged  father  just  released  from  long  im- 
prisonment, meets  her  brother  coming  to  ransom  Christian 
captives,  and  thus  finds  herself  in  the  clutch  of  passions  as 
irreconcilable  as  tigers  in  presence  of  one  stray  white  lamb. 
On  one  side,  religion,  loyalty,  natural  affection,  and  pride  of 
race ;  on  the  other,  a  deep  and  tender  love  at  the  hour  of 
fruition,  and  a  lover  all  fire  and  jealousy.  The  tender  lamb, 
of  course,  is  torn  in  pieces.  The  Soudan,  mistaking  the 
brother  for  a  lover,  and  a  baptismal  rendezvous  for  a  rendez- 
vous of  love,  kills  her ;  and  then,  discovering  his  error,  kills 
himself. 

Forget  "  Othello ;  "  come  to  "  Zaire  "  by  the  road  of  the  an- 
cient classic  drama  of  France,  and  you  find  it  a  powerful  and 
affecting  work,  with  many  a  passage  of    genuine   force  and 


278  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

beauty  ;  the  whole  performance  announcing  the  deliverance  of 
the  French  stage  from  the  bondage  of  its  ancient  rules  and 
unities.  The  subject  was  a  happy  one  for  an  author  born  to 
exhibit  tlie  nothingness  of  those  theological  differences  which 
made  men  willing  to  tear  out  one  another's  vitals.  "  On  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges,"  says  the  innocent,  bewildered  Zaire,  "I 
had  been  a  devotee  of  false  gods ;  in  Paris,  a  Christian  ;  here, 
a  Mahometan.  Instructiun  does  all ;  the  hand  of  our  fathers 
engraves  upon  our  feeble  hearts  those  first  characters  which 
time  and  example  retrace."  And  again,  speaking  of  her  lover: 
"Can  God  hate  a  heart  so  magnanimous?  Generous,  benefi- 
cent, just,  full  of  excellent  cjualities,  if  he  had  been  born  a 
Christian,  what  would  he  have  been  more  ?  "  The  Mahom- 
etan chief  speaks,  in  his  turn,  of  the  wonder  and  indignation 
he  had  felt  on  finding  himself  equaled  in  virtue  by  a  Chris- 
tian ! 

Tragedy,  comedy,  farce,  poem,  history,  romance,  —  what- 
ever might  be  the  name  and  plumage  of  the  pigeon  which 
Voltaire  loosed  in  his  autho-r's  life  of  sixty  years,  the  message 
under  its  wings  was  sure  to  be  such  as  these  words  convey. 

But,  in  "  Zaire,"  he  was  fortunate,  as  an  author  competing 
for  public  favor,  in  having  opportunities  to  give  eloquent  ex- 
pression also  to  the  feeling  which  inspired  the  crusades ;  and 
thus  he  gave  pleasure  in  the  same  plaj^  and  sometimes  in 
the  same  passage,  to  the  philosophers  and  to  the  Christians. 
"  Great  by  his  valor,  greater  by  his  faith,^'  is  a  sentiment 
which  a  French  girls'  boarding-school  would,  perhaps,  still  ap- 
plaud. There  is  also  a  magnificent  burst  of  religious  feeling 
in  the  second  act,  where  the  aged  father  of  Zaire  appeals  to 
the  sacred  objects  and  places  near  Jerusalem,  to  rouse  in  his 
daughter  the  dormant  Christian  sentiment.  "  Thy  God  whom 
thou  betray  est,  thy  God  whom  thou  blasphemest,  died  for 
thee,  died  for  the  universe,  amid  these  scenes.  Turn  thine 
eyes  ;  his  tomb  is  near  this  palace.  Here  is  the  JNIount 
whereon,  to  wash  away  our  sins,  he  was  willing  to  die  under 
the  wounds  of  impious  men.  Yonder  is  the  place  where  he 
returned  to  life  from  the  gx-ave.  In  this  august  region  thou 
canst  not  take  one  step  without  finding  thy  God  !  " 

The  success  of  "  Zaire  "  gave  its  impetuous  author  no  rest, 
no  pause  ;  for  it  was  his  habit  not  only  to  correct  ceaselessly 


THE  TENDER   "ZAIRE."  279 

his  past  works,  but  to  have  several  new  ones  in  pnngress  at  the 
same  time.  In  the  interval  of  the  summer  holidays  we  see 
him  "  reworking  *  Zaire  '  as  though  it  had  been  a  failui'-e,"  re- 
casting "  Julius  Csesar  "  and  "  Eriphile,"  correcting  "  Charles 
XII."  for  a  new  Holland  edition,  replying  at  much  lengt,h  to  si 
pamphlet  calling  in  question  some  of  its  statements,  adding  im- 
poitant  things  to  his  English  Letters,  meditating  a  new  play, 
accumulating  material  for  his  "  Histoi-y  of  Louis  XIV.,"  and 
Avriting  long  letters,  Avith  sprightly  and  graceful  verses  in- 
terspersed. "How  much  toil  and  trouble,"  he  writes  to  For- 
mont  in  September,  1732,  "  for  this  smoke  of  vainglory ! 
Nevertheless,  what  should  w^e  do  without  that  chimera  ?  It 
is  as  necessary  to  the  soul  as  food  is  to  the  body.  I  have 
made  '  Eriphile  '  and  '  Csesar '  all  over  again  ;  and  all  for  that 
smoke." 

In  October  he  was  at  Fontainebleau,  where  he  spent  six 
weeks,  superintending  the  performance  before  the  court  of  old 
plays  and  new,  —  "  Zaire  "  and  "  Mariamne  "  among  them,  — 
and  in  rewriting  his  chapter  upon  Newton  and  Gravitation  for 
the  English  Letters,  getting  important  aid  from  his  friend 
and  mathematician,  Maupertuis.  In  the  midst  of  his  court  life 
we  discover  him  corresponding  with  Maupertuis  upon  the  New- 
tonian philosophy  ;  which  was  so  little  known  in  France,  and 
so  lightly  regarded,  that  he  began  to  doubt  whether  it  could 
be  all  that  the  English  claimed  for  it.  "  A  frightful  scruple 
comes  to  me,"  he  writes,  "and  all  my  faith  is  shaken."  But 
Maupertuis  completely  reassured  him.  "  Burn  my  ridiculous 
objections,"  Voltaire  rejoins  ;  and  he  goes  on  with  his  New- 
tonian chapter  without  fear.  Who  that  saw  him  about  the 
palace  at  this  time  could  have  suspected  such  a  correspond- 
ence !  "  The  whole  court,"  he  writes  to  a  young  lady,  while 
he  w^as  puzzling  over  Newton,  "has  been  in  combustion  for 
three  or  four  days  with  regard  to  a  bad  comedy  which  I  kept 
from  being  played Two  parties  were  formed  :  one,  in- 
cluding the  queen  and  her  ladies ;  the  other,  the  princesses 
and  their  adherents.  The  queen  was  victorious,  and  I  made 
peace  with  the  princesses.  This  important  affair  cost  me  but  a 
few  trifling,  mediocre  verses,  which,  however,  were  deemed 
very  good  by  those  to  whom  they  were  addressed  ;  for  there  is 
no  goddess  whose  nose  the  odor  of  incense  does  not  regale." 


280  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

We  have  a  glimpse  of  him  during  this  residence  at  court 
from  a  s:''cirical  letter  of  Alexis  Piron,  who  was  also  a  courtier 
for  the  moment.  Piron  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  delu- 
sion wliicli  comic  writers,  as  well  as  comic  actors,  frequently 
r.berish,  that  nature  meant  him  for  the  tragic  drama.  One  of 
his  tragedies,  entitled  "  Gnstave,"  he  had  offered  to  the  actors, 
and  may  have  had  it  with  him  at  Fontainebleau.  He  could 
not,  in  early  life,  contemplate  Volt;iire's  tragic  triumphs  with 
unalloyed  satisfaction.  This  too  brief  description  of  court 
scenes  is  in  his  good  comedy  vein :  — 

"  I  should  be  much  bored  at  court  [he  writes  to  the  Abbe  Legen- 
dre],  but  for  a  window  corner  in  the  gallery,  where,  opera-glass  in 
hand,  I  post  myself  for  some  hours  ;  and  God  knows  the  pleasure  I 
have  in  seeing  the  goers  and  comers.  Ah,  the  masks  !  If  you  should 
see  what  an  edifying  aspect  people  of  your  garb  have  !  what  an  im- 
portant air  the  courtiers  !  how  the  rest  are  changed  by  fear  and  hope  ! 
and,  especially,  how  false  those  airs,  for  the  most  part,  are  to  discern- 
ing eyes  !  It  is  a  marvel.  I  see  nothing  genuine  here  but  the  faces 
of  the  Swiss  guards,  the  only  philosophers  of  the  court.  With  their 
halberds  upon  their  shoulders,  their  big  mustaches,  and  their  tranquil 
air,  one  would  say  that  they  regarded  all  these  hungry  fortune-hunters 
as  people  who  are  running  after  what  they,  poor  Swiss  as  they  are, 
obtained  long  ago.  Speaking  of  that,  it  was  with  a  sufficiently  Swiss 
expression  that  I  watched,  very  much  at  my  ease,  yesterday,  Voltaire, 
bustling  about  like  a  little  green  pea  among  the  crowds  of  foolish  peo- 
ple who  amused  me.     When  he  saw  me,  — 

" '  Ah,  good  day,  my  dear  Piron.  What  are  you  at  court  for  ?  I 
have  been  here  these  three  weeks.  They  played  my  "  Mariamne  "  the 
other  day,  and  they  are  going  to  play  "  Zaire."  When  "  Gustave  "  ? 
How  are  you  ?  Ah,  Monsieur  Duke,  one  word.  I  was  looking  for 
you.' 

"  He  said  that  all  in  a  breath  ;  I  was  unable  to  get  in  a  word.  So, 
this  morning,  having  met  him  again,  I  said  at  once,  — 

"  *  Very  well,  thank  you,  sir.' 

*'  He  did  not  know  what  I  meant  until  I  told  him  he  had  left  me 
the  evening  before  asking  me  how  I  was,  and  I  had  not  been  able  to 
answer  him  sooner." 

The  sage  Piron  does  not  tell  us  how  Voltaire  extricated  him- 
self on  this  occasion.  Late  in  the  year  the  author  of  "  Zaire  " 
returned  to  Paris,  and  spent  the  winter  at  the  hotel  of  his  aged 
countess,  in  that  tumult  of  work  and  pleasure,  of  literature 


THE   TENDER   "ZAIRE."  281 

and  speculation,  which  made  up  his  life  at  the  capital.  Early 
in  January,  1733,  there  was  a  memorable  evening  at  Madame 
de  Fontaine-Martel's,  when  "  Zaire  "  was  performed  in  the 
salon,  the  author  himself  playing  the  part  of  Lusignan,  the 
aged  and  dying  father  of  the  heroine.  "  I  drew  tears  from 
beautiful  eyes,"  he  wrote  to  Formont.  Almost  every  day 
there  was  a  festival  of  some  kind  at  this  hotel,  —  a  festival, 
too,  tlie  chief  design  of  which  was  to  amuse  Voltaire.  There 
were  charades,  games,  forfeits,  feats  of  rhyming,  cards,  music, 
comedy,  tragedy,  divei'tusement,  —  all  the  gayeties  in  vogue. 
High  play,  too,  sometimes ;  for  this  thriving  poet  mentions 
losing  there  twelve  thousand  francs  in  one  evening. 

Suddenly,  in  January,  1733,  the  gay,  distracting  life  came  to 
an  end.  Death  knocked  at  the  door.  The  aged  countess  fell 
dangerously  sick,  suffered  a  few  days,  and  died.  Her  death,  it 
must  be  confessed,  was  not  "  edifying,"  and  Voltaire's  account 
of  it  not  more  so.  "  What  o'clock  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  dying 
woman.  Without  waiting  to  be  told,  she  added,  "  Blessed  be 
God,  whatever  the  hour  may  be,  there  is  somewhere  a  ren- 
dezvous !  "  1 

He  gave  other  particulars,  not  less  astounding,  in  a  letter  to 
Formont,  just  after  the  funeral :  — 

"  I  owe  an  answer  to  your  charming  epistle  [in  prose  aijd  verse], 
but  the  illness  of  our  baroness  suspended  all  our  double  rhymes.  I 
did  not  believe,  eight  days  ago,  that  the  first  verses  I  should  have 
to  compose  for  her  would  be  her  epitaph.  I  cannot  conceive  how 
I  bore  all  the  burdens  that  have  overwhelmed  me  these  fifteen  days 
past.  On  the  one  hand,  they  seized  an  edition  of  '  Zaire  ; '  on  the 
other,  the  baroness  was  dying.  I  had  to  go  and  solicit  the  Keeper 
of  the  Seals,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  seek  the  viatica.  At  night 
I  was  in  attendance  upon  the  patient,  and  all  day  I  was  occupied 
with  the  details  of  the  house.  Imagine  it :  it  was  I  who  announced 
to  the  poor  woman  that  she  had  to  set  out  \_partir'\.  She  was 
unwilling  to  hear  the  last  ceremonies  spoken  of ;  but  I  was  obliged 
in  honor  to  make  her  die  in  the  rules.  I  brought  her  a  priest,  half 
Jansenist,  half  politician,  who  made  believe  confess  her,  and  after- 
wards gave  her  the  rest.  When  this  comedian  of  St.  ICustache  asked 
her  aloud  if  she  was  not  firmly  persuaded  th-at  her  God,  her  Creator, 
was  in  the  Eucharist,  she  answered.  Ah,  yes !  in  a  tone  that  would 
have  made  me  burst  out  laughing,  in  circumstances  less  doleful." 

1  Voltaire  to  Richelieu,  July  19,  1769. 


282  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

And  this  countess  had  a  daughter  who  was  a  Jansenist, 
and  doubtless  believed  in  the  miracles  of  the  blessed  Paris  ! 
Such  was  the  dislocation  of  society  then !  Voltaire  speaks  of 
writing  madame's  epitaph.  He  did  so,  with  perfect  sincerity, 
in  the  first  sentence  of  a  letter  to  Cideville,  written  on  the 
same  day  :  "  I  have  lost,  as  perhaps  you  know,  Madame  de 
Fontaine-Martel.  That  is  to  say,  I  have  lost  a  good  house 
of  which  I  was  the  master,  and  forty  thousand  francs  of 
revenue  which  was  spent  in  diverting  me." 

It  was  necessary  to  dislodge,  though  he  lingered  three 
months  longer  in  the  "  good  house  "  of  the  departed.  His 
next  abode  was  a  change  of  scene  such  as  we  see  in  a  pan- 
tomime. From  the  airy  and  brilliant  neighborhood  of  the 
Palais-Royal,  he  went  to  live,  in  May,  1733,  at  the  house  of  his 
man  of  business,  Demoulin,  in  a  dingy  and  obscure  lane,  called 
then  Rue  de  Longpont,  now  Rue  Jacques-de-Brosse.  Opposite 
the  house  was  the  fine  portico  of  the  church  of  St.  Gervail, 
the  bells  of  which,  it  appears,  disturbed  his  repose.  He  told 
his  friend  Cideville  that  his  new  home  was  in  the  ugliest 
house  of  the  ugliest  quarter  of  Paris,  and  that  he  was  more 
deafened  in  it  by  the  noise  of  the  bells  than  a  sexton. 
"But,"  he  added,  "  I  shall  make  so  much  noise  with  my  lyre 
that  the  sound  of  the  bells  will  be  nothing  for  me."  Madame 
Demoulin  served  as  housekeeper  to  all  the  inmates,  and  the 
merchant-poet  was  attended  by  a  valet  and  an  amanuensis. 

He  usually  had  with  him  a  fledgeling  poet  or  two,  whose 
talents  he  encouraged, —  with  the  usual  result  of  total  disap- 
pointment. The  talents  that  move  the  world  are  apt  to  be 
discouraged,  until  they  no  longer  need  encouragement.  Two 
poets,  Lefevre  and  Linant,  were  with  him  at  this  period. 
Lefevre  died  in  the  flower  of  his  days  ;  but  Linant,  who  pos- 
sessed, as  Voltaire  remarks,  all  the  virtues  becoming  a  man  of 
fortune,  but  not  those  that  help  a  man  to  win  fortune,  clung 
to  him  long,  and  plagued  him  much  by  his  unconquerable 
indolence.  By  the  middle  of  May,  1733,  Voltaire  was  settled 
in  his  new  quarters,  with  his  retainers,  his  proteges^  and  his 
projects,  literary  and  commercial.  "  I  come  here,"  he  wrote 
to  Cideville,  while  he  was  moving,  "  to  lead  a  philosophic  life, 
the  plan  of  which  I  have  long  had  in  my  head,  and  never  car- 
ried out." 


THE    TENDER   "ZAIRE."  283 

He  and  his  man  of  business  Avere  deeper  than  ever  in  com- 
merce now,  importing  grain  from  Mediterranean  ports,  and 
bringing  into  France  the  rich  products  of  Spain  and  Portu- 
gal. He  was  greatly  interested,  in  1733,  in  a  project  for 
making  straw  paper,  an  invention  reserved  for  a  later  day. 
Many  of  liis  letters  on  this  subject  exist  in  manuscript,  not 
yet  accessible. 1  A  more  profitable  enterprise  than  any  of 
these  was  looming  up  this  spring.  The  war  to  replace  Stan- 
islas upon  the  throne  of  Poland  began  this  year,  and  Paris- 
Duverney  returned  with  his  brothers  to  their  old  trade  of  feed- 
ing the  troops.  He  invited  and  advised  Voltaire  to  take 
a  share  in  the  contract ;  and  who  could  do  the  work  better 
than  one  accustomed  to  import  grain  from  the  chief  sources 
of  supply  ?  The  contractors  agreed  to  place  provisions  wher- 
ever needed  at  a  fixed  sum  per  ration  (say,  sixty  sous)  ;  and 
hence,  in  an  easy,  languid,  political  war  like  this,  an  inordi- 
nate profit  might  be  realized.  In  the  course  of  two  or  three 
mild  campaigns,  Voltaire's  share  of  the  proceeds  of  the  con- 
tract amounted  to  six  hundred  thousand  francs  ;2  and  this 
without  interrupting  his  career,  and  while  he  seemed  wholly 
the  man  of  letters. 

It  is  not  often  that  the  same  hand  supplies  an  army  with 
biscuit  and  with  laurel.  Among  the  minor  poems  of  our  con- 
tractor is  one,  in  the  poet-laureate  style,  celebrating  the  Ital- 
ian campaign  of  1734,  for  which  campaign  he  assisted  to 
furnish  supplies.  If  the  biscuit  and  the  beef  which  he  sent 
to  the  army  of  Italy  were  no  better  than  the  poem  with 
which  he  regaled  it,  his  soldiers  would  have  given  the  con- 
tractor a  sorry  welcome  if  he  had  ventured  into  camp.  Yet 
he  put  his  own  name  to  his  sham  poem,  while  using  that  of 
Demoulin  for  his  honest  business. 

1  Jeunesse  de  Voltaire,  page  480. 

2  Memoires,  par  S.  G.  Lougchamp,  article  34. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THE  ENGLISH  LETTERS  PUBLISHED. 

But  lie  could  not  live  in  Paris.  He  never  could,  long  at  a 
time.  One  would  have  thought  that  now  his  position  was 
something  more  than  merely  secure  in  his  native  city  ;  since, 
to  a  great  and  growing  celebrity,  he  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  add  a  great  and  growing  fortune. 

He  was  forty  years  of  age ;  fifteen  years  had  passed  since 
the  production  of  "  CEdipe,"  and  he  had  a  widening  circle  of 
"  admirers,"  as  well  among  the  few  who  seek  knowledge  from 
the  books  they  read  as  among  the  many  who  seek  pleasure. 
The  Marquise  du  Chatelet  speaks  of  having  known  "  La  Hen- 
riade  "  by  heart  before  she  saw  the  author's  face  in  1733.  In 
distant  lands,  men  open  to  liberal  ideas  were  reading  his  works 
with  that  silent  gratitude  with  which  we  have  hailed  the  suc- 
cession of  free  spirits  who  have  made  our  own  generation  mem- 
orable. We  have  been  blessed  with  many  such  ;  but,  in  1733 
and  later,  Voltaire  was  the  only  conspicuous  author  on  the  Con- 
tinent who  wi'ote  in  the  new  spirit.  Frederic,  Prince  Royal  of 
Prussia,  who  came  of  age  in  1733,  was,  we  may  be  sure,  not 
the  only  young  man  in  Germany  who  scanned  the  horizon  for 
the  first  sign  of  something  new  from  Voltaire,  and  counted 
the  days  till  he  received  his  copy.  In  England  he  was,  at 
least,  a  bookseller's  favorite,  for  there  was  "  money  in  him." 
Rival  editions  of  "  Charles  XII.,"  a  Henriade  in  English  verse, 
two  in  French  verse,  three  thousand  copies  of  the  English  Let- 
ters printed  for  the  first  edition,  a  "Za'ire"  in  French  for 
readers,  a  "  Za'ire  "  in  English  on  the  stage,  and  all  these  run- 
ning in  1732  and  1733,  attest  tlie  commercial  value  of  his 
reputation  in  England.  Amsterdam  had  given  Europe  two 
editions  of  his  collected  works  :  one,  a  small  duodecimo,  in 
1728  ;  another,  in  two  volumes  octavo,  in  1732.^ 

^  Bibliographic  Voltairienne,  page  92. 


THE   ENGLISH  LETTERS   PUBLISHED.  285 

But  he  could  not  live  in  Paris,  notwithstanding. 
There  was  a  vacancy  in  the  French  Academy,  in  December, 
1731,  by  the  death  of  Lamotte,  one  of  the  Forty  ;  that  Acad- 
emy v/hich,  as  Voltaire  himself  tells  us,  was  —  as  it  now  is  — 
the  darling  object  of  desire  to  men  of  letters  in  France.  The 
great  Richelieu,  who  founded  the  Academy,  would  have  given 
the  vacant  chair  to  the  author  of  "  Charles  XII.,"  "  Q^dipe," 
"  Zaire,"  and  "  La  Henriade."  Voltaire  may  have  been  of 
that  opinion,  and  appears  to  have  had  a  momentary  expecta- 
tion of  receiving  the  king's  nomination.  But,  early  in  1732, 
by  some  unknown  chance  or  treachery  was  published  that 
deistical  poem,  the  "  Epistle  to  Uranie,"  written  by  him  ten 
years  before  for  Madame  de  Rupelmonde,  his  traveling  com- 
panion on  the  journey  to  Holland.  It  was  published,  too, 
with  the  name  of  the  author.  "  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 
asked  the  austere  chancellor  of  France,  D'Aguesseau,  of  his 
secretary,  Langlois.  "•  Monseigneiir,"  replied  the  secretary, 
"  Voltaire  ought  to  be  shut  up  in  a  place  where  he  could  have 
neither  pen,  ink,  nor  paper.  That  man,  by  the  bent  of  his 
mind,  can  destroy  a  stale."  ^  The  Archbishop  of  Paris  com- 
plained formally  to  the  lieutenant  of  police,  Herault,  so  often 
obliged  to  concern  himself  with  a  troublesome  poet.  The  lieu- 
tenant summoned  the  culprit  to  his  cabinet.  Voltaire  parried 
this  grave  danger  by  the  expedient  employed  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  whenever  he  was  cornered  touching  the  authorship  of 
"  Waverley."  Pie  plumi)ly  denied  having  written  it.  It  was 
the  w^ork,  he  added,  of  the  late  Abbe  de  Chaulieu ;  he  had 
heard  the  abbd  recite  it ;  and,  indeed,  in  the  volume  of  Chau- 
lieu's  works,  collected  by  Thieriot,  there  are  several  poems  ex- 
pressing similar  sentiments.  The  lieutenant,  who  may  have 
seen  "  Zaire  "  the  evening  before,  was  polite  enough  to  pre- 
tend to  believe  this,  and  the  poet  retained  his  liberty.  Dur- 
ing Lent  several  orthodox  poets  tried  their  skill  in  replying  to 
the  obnoxious  epistle  in  the  "  Mercure,"  but  without  eliciting 
response  from  the  abb^. 

The  tender  "  Zaire  "  was  the  innocent  occasion  of  a  more 
noisy  and  lasting,  if  less  perilous  commotion.  J.  B.  Rousseau, 
still  in  unjust,  dependent  exile  at  sixty-three,  had  lost  much  of 

1  Paroles  Memorables,  par  G.  Brottier,  page  303.     Quoted  in  Jeunesse  de  Vol- 
taire, page  459. 


286  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

his  poetic  power,  without  gaining  in  good  temper.     He  heard 
of  Voltaire's  successes  with  the   jealousy  of  a  narrow  mind 
soured  b}^  age  aud  misfortune.     He  had  written  of  Voltaire, 
in  1731,  in  a  letter  designed  to  be  handed  about  Paris,  in  a 
style   of  affected  contempt,  as  "  a  young   man  who  imposed 
upon  others  by  his  effrontery,  but  produced  nothing  that  pos- 
terity would  take  as  true  metal,"  —  a  too  obvious  reminiscence 
of  Voltaire's  jest  upon  Rousseau's  "  Ode  to  Posterity."     He 
spoke  contemptuously  of  his  plays  as  a  string  of  fragments 
devoid  of  connection  and  of  sense,  improbable  and  unnatural, 
with  here  and  there  a   few  verses  not  wanting  in  spirit,  but 
very  irregular  and  inharmonious.    "  Add  to  that,"  wrote  Rous- 
seau, "  a   proud  ignorance  which  disdains   to  be   informed,  a 
vanity  that  revolts,  and  an  audacity  in  setting  up  rules  intol- 
erable in  an  author  who   neither  recognizes  nor  knows  any 
rule."     All  of  which  was  ill-natured  and  unjust;   but  there 
was  no  savor  of  the  Bastille  in  it,  and  no  scent  of  the  fagot. 
"  Zaire  "  was  produced,  and  gave  Voltaire  rank  as  the  tragic 
poet  of  the  time.     Rousseau  received  from  his  correspondent 
in  Paris  a  copy  of  the  tragedy,  and  with  it  some  rumor  of  a 
composition  by  Voltaire  called  the  "  Temple  du  Gout,"  —  a 
piece  of  fun  then  in   manuscript,  in  which  Rousseau,  among 
other  poets,  was  burlesqued.     The  exile  wrote  in  reply  a  long 
letter,  which  also  was   meant  to  circulate  where  it  could  do 
most  harm :  — 

"  The  piece  [Zaire]  which  you  sent  me  has  arrived  at  last.  Those 
who  told  me,  four  montlis  ago,  that  the  subtle  design  of  the  work 
was  to  prove  Saracens  better  people  than  Christians  gave  me  an  er- 
roneous idea  of  it ;  for  it  does  not  appear  that  the  author  had  tliat  de- 
sign in  view.  The  sentiment  which  reigns  in  it  tends  simply  to 
show  that  all  the  efforts  of  Grace  have  no  power  over  the  passions. 
This  impious  dogma,  not  less  hostile  to  good  sense  than  to  religion, 

is  the   sole  basis  of    his  plot He    must    have  a  bad  opinion 

of  his  auditory  to  suppose  that  the  picture  of  frenzied  concupiscence 
in  a  Christian  piece,  wherein  a  crucified  God  is  spoken  of,  and  the 
ineffable  mysteries  of  the  faitli,  would  appear  more  touching  than 
the  miraculous  effects  of  divine  mercy." 

He  continues  to  denounce  the  play  at  inordinate  length, 
styling  it  "an  odious  melange  of  piety  and  libertinage,"  a 
"monstrous  tragedy,"  "trivial  and  flat,"  which  would  revolt 


THE   ENGLISH   LETTERS   PUBLISHED.  287 

all  honest  readers^  He  contrasts  with  "Za'ire"  the  pious  trage- 
dies of  Racine  and  Corneille,  so  much  admired  at  boarding- 
school  exhibitions  and  convent  festivals.  He  concludes  his 
letter  thus :  — 

"  As  to  what  you  tell  me  of  Voltaire's  recriminations,  I  foresaw  that 
your  complaisance  in  permitting  a  copy  to  be  taken  of  what  I  wrote 
to  you  upon  this  little  author  would  call  out  something  of  the  kind 
from  him.  But  it  gives  me  very  little  concern.  He  is  a  man  of  no 
consequence,  who  can  build  all  the  Temples  he  pleases  without  fear 
of  my  taking  the  hammer  to  work  at  their  demolition.  I  esteem  his 
architecture  no  more  than  I  do  his  poetry.  Nevertheless,  although 
I  have  no  desire  to  measure  myself  with  such  an  adversary,  I  am 
not  sorry  that  the  public  is  informed  of  the  reasons  for  his  attacking 
me ;  and  to  that  end  the  extracts  can  serve  which  you  allowed  to 
be  taken  of  what  I  wrote  to  you  on  this  subject." 

Voltaire  was  transported  with  fury  by  this  unprovoked  and 
perilous  attack.  A  man  of  his  constitution,  worn  always  by 
intense  mental  toil,  and  regulating  his  system  more  by  medi- 
cine than  by  regimen,  may  become  irritable  to  an  inconceiv- 
able degree.  But  there  were  two  peculiarities  in  his  case  : 
he  could  retain  his  anger  a  long  time ;  and,  the  moment  he 
took  pen  in  hand,  he  could  perfectly  control  it.  Poor  Rous- 
seau exhibited  his  malevolence  in  every  line ;  but  Voltaire 
never  seems  more  light  of  heart,  more  at  peace  with  all  the 
world,  more  free  from  everything  like  rancor,  than  in  this 
''Temple  of  Taste,"  written  chiefly,  perhaps,  to  "get  even 
with  "  J.  B.  Rousseau.  No  cat  was  ever  more  playful  while 
a  mouse  was  fluttering  away  its  little  life  between  her  velvet 
paws.  It  was  a  piece  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  printed  pages, 
of  verse  and  prose  intermingled  :  chatty,  critical,  satirical,  eu- 
logistic, —  everything  by  turns,  and  nothing  long.  It  was 
such  free  and  easy  discourse  upon  men,  things,  and  books,  liv- 
ing and  dead,  ancient  and  recent,  as  might  be  supposed  to  fall 
from  the  poet's  lips  after  supper,  while  surrounded  only  by 
friends.  Fancy  such  talk  printed  in  the  life-time  of  three 
fourths  of  the  people  mentioned  by  name !  Fancy  it  so 
spirited,  so  elegant,  so  witty,  so  brief,  and,  worst  of  all,  so 
true^  that  all  the  reading  world  must  possess  it,  must  re-read 
it,  must  send  it  to  their  friends  in  the  country,  with  fierce 
censure  or  chuckling  eulogiura  !     Sainte-Beuve  truly  remarks 


288  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

that  posterity  lias  ratified  its  judgments  ;  but  there  was  the 
sting  of  it. 

In  a  few  verses  of  that  graceful,  complimentary,  audacious 
badinage  of  which  Voltaire  is  the  sole  master,  he  informs  the 
reader  that  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury  had  asked  to  go  with  him 
to  the  Temple  of  Taste.  They  set  out  together;  and  this 
piece  is  the  record  of  their  journey.  Every  folly  of  the  hour 
is  gayly  and  good-humoredly  hit :  "  the  cloud  of  commenta- 
tors who  restore  passages,  and  compile  big  volumes  apropos 
of  a  word  they  don't  understand;"  thoughtless  expositors  of 
thought ;  "  connoisseurs  of  pictures  who  go  into  raptures  at 
God  the  Father  in  his  eternal  glory,  genteelly  painted  in  the 
taste  of  Watteau  ;  "  the  rage  for  Italian  music ;  the  excessive 
tasteless  ornamentation  of  the  new  edifices ;  editors  and  re- 
viewers who,  "  like  insects,  are  only  perceived  when  they 
sting ; "  old  authors  overrated  and  living  authors  miscon- 
ceived. The  cardinal  and  the  poet,  in  the  course  of  their 
joui-ney,  arrive  near  the  entrance  of  the  Temple,  where,  of 
course,  they  meet  a  throng  of  candidates  for  admission ;  among 
others,  the  austere  and  orthodox  Rousseau. 

"  Another  versifier  arrives,  supported  by  two  little  satyrs,  and 
crowned  with  laurels  and  with  thistles.  '  I  come,'  says  he,  '  to  laugh 
and  have  a  good  time,  and  to  go  it  like  the  devil ;  and  I  won't  go 
home  till  morning  !  '  '  Why,  what  's  this  I  hear  ? '  asks  la  Critique. 
'  It  is  I,'  said  the  rhymer.  '  I  come  from  Germany  to  see  you.  I 
have  taken  the  spring-time  for  it,  since  the  young  Zejihyrs  with 
their  warm  breath  have  melted  the  hark  of  the  waters '  [parody  of  a 
Rousseau  couplet].  The  more  he  spoke  this  language,  the  less  the 
door  opened.  '  What  do  they  take  me  for,  then  ?'  said  he.  *  For  a 
frog  that  goes  about  singing,  from  the  bottom  of  his  little  throat, 
Brekeke,  kake,  koax,  koax,  koax  ? '  '  Ah,  hon  Dieu  I  what  horrible 
jargon  !  '  cried  la  Critique.  She  could  not  at  first  recognize  him  who 
expressed  himself  in  this  manner.  She  was  informed  that  it  was 
Rousseau,  whose  voice  the  Muses  had  changed  to  that  of  a  frog,  as 
a  punishment  for  his  spiteful  tricks.  She  opened  the  door,  however, 
in  consideration  of  his  early  verses,  saying,  '  Poets,  compose  your 
verses  at  Paris,  and  don't  go  to  Germany.'  Then,  approaching  me, 
she  said  in  a  low  tone,  '  You  know  him ;  he  was  your  enemy ;  and 
you  do  him  justice.  You  see  his  Muse,  between  the  altar  and  the 
fagot,  handle  indifferently  the  harp  of  David  and  the  flageolet  of 
Marot.     Don't  imitate  his  weakness  in  rhyming  too  long.     The  fruits 


THE  ENGLISH  LETTERS   PUBLISHED.  289 

of  tlie  Permessus   are   produced  only  in  the  spring.     Cold  and  mel- 
ancholy old  age  is  only  made  for  good  sense.'  " 

Admitted  to  the  Temple,  Rousseau  turns  pale  with  wrath 
at  meeting  there  Fontenelle,  against  whom  he  had  launched  so 
many  epigrams.  He  goes  aside  to  make  another  epigram, 
while  the  aged  and  beloved  Fontenelle  "  looks  upon  him  with 
that  philosophic  compassion  which  a  broad  and  enlightened 
spirit  cannot  help  feeling  for  a  man  who  only  knows  how  to 
rhyme  ;  and  lie  goes  away  tranquilly  to  take  his  place  between 
Lucretius  and  Leibnitz." 

Among  other  applicants  for  admission  to  the  Temple  is  a 
black  monk,  who  announces  himself  thus  :  "  I  am  the  Rever- 
end Father  Albertus  Garassus.  I  preach  better  than  Bourda- 
loue  [court  preacher  to  Louis  XIV.],  for  Bourdaloue  never 
caused  any  books  to  be  burned  ;  whereas  I  declaimed  with 
such  eloquence  against  Pierre  Bayle,  in  a  little  province  over- 
flowing with  intellect,  I  so  touched  my  hearers,  that  six  of 
tliem  burned  their  Bayles.  Never  before  did  eloquence  obtain 
so  beautiful  a  triumph."  To  whom  la  Critique  replies,  "  Be- 
gone, Brother  Garassus !  Begone,  barbarian  !  Out  of  the 
Temple  of  Taste !  Out  of  my  sight,  modern  Visigoth,  who 
hast  traduced  the  man  of  myself  inspired  !  " 

The  "  Temple  du  Gout "  being  ready  for  publication,  the 
author  read  it  to  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  who  thought  it  might 
receive,  not  merely  a  tacit  permission,  but  even  a  royal  privi- 
lege, since  he  found  nothing  in  it  hostile  to  the  state,  to  relig- 
ion, or  to  morals.  But  while  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the  ap- 
pointed censor,  M.  Crebillon,  lo,  it  appeared  from  the  press  ! 
Such  accidents  could  happen  at  a  time  when  it  was  so  usual  to 
take  copies  of  poems  circulating  in  drawing-rooms.  Once  in 
print,  it  ran  like  a  prairie  fire,  and  raised  a  buzzing  and  sting- 
ing storm  about  the  author's  ears  of  unexampled  fury.  On 
this  occasion  he  was  probably  astonished  to  discover  what  a 
terrible  weapon  he  wielded  when  he  used  his  pen  in  his  ban- 
tering manner,  of  which  no  translation  can  give  an  adequate 
idea.  He  had  the  art  of  cutting  several  ways  at  once,  making 
sentences  that  had  in  them  various  currents  of  allusion,  all  ex- 
asperating to  the  victims,  all  diverting  to  the  reader.  It  was 
like  fighting  with  one  of  those  hundred-bladed  knives  that  boys 
admire  in  the  shop-windows.     At  a  moment  when  he  had  just 

VOL.  I.  19 


290  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

finished  a  new  tragedy,  "  Adelaide,"  and  was  full  of  zeal  in 
collecting  material  for  his  opus  magnum.,  his  "  Louis  XIV. ;  " 
at  a  time  when,  as  he  wrote  to  Thieriot,  he  was  "  exhaust- 
ing and  killing  himself  in  order  to  amuse  his  fool  of  a  coun- 
try," he  was  in  the  midst  of  enemies,  persecutions,  and  mis- 
fortunes. 

Those  whom  he  had  not  praised  enough  and  those  whom 
he  had  not  praised  at  all  were  equally  envenomed  again&t  him. 
"  Join  to  that  the  crime  of  having  printed  this  bagatelle  with- 
out a  permit  sealed  with  yellow  wax,  and  the  wrath  of  the  min- 
istry against  such  treason  ;  add  to  that  the  outcries  of  the 
court  and  the  threat  of  a  lettre  de  cachet.,  and  you  will  have 
only  a  faint  idea  of  the  pleasant  situation  I  am  in,  and  of  the 
protection  given  here  to  the  belles-lettres.^^ 

There  was  danger  in  the  air.  He  knew  the  insecurity  of 
his  position,  and  that  his  only  safety  was  in  getting  upon  his 
side  a  certain  public  opinion,  —  a  public  pride,  —  which  would 
make  the  government  ashamed  to  molest  an  ornament  of  the 
country.  Hence  his  rage  at  such  letters  as  those  of  Rousseau, 
which  gave  countenance  and  courage  to  the  natural  enemies  of 
the  human  mind,  —  those  who  appealed  to  the  dungeon  and 
the  fire  when  their  interpretation  of  the  universe  was  called  in 
question.  He  was  one  against  a  host ;  he  could  depend  on  no 
effective  support  except  his  own  tact  and  talent. 

Among  his  minor  writings,  published  during  the  last  year  or 
two  of  his  attempt  to  continue  his  career  in  Paris,  were  three 
pieces  in  prose  which  attest  his  forethought  and  skill  in  this 
unequal  combat.  One  of  these  was  a  long  letter  to  the  editors 
of  the  "  Nouvelliste  du  Parnasse,"  politely  remonstrating  with 
them  upon  their  harshness  in  dealing  with  the  authors  noticed 
by  them.  He  said  that,  for  his  own  part,  he  never  permitted 
himself  the  liberty  of  saying  or  writing  plain  Fontenelle  or 
Ciiaulieu,  but  always  M.  de  Fontenelle  and  M.  I'Abb^  de 
Chaulieu,  and  he  had  corrected  several  persons  of  the  habit  of 
using  such  indecent  familiarity  towards  men  who  shed  lustre 
upon  France.  He  might  say  "  the  great  Corneille,"  since  that 
poet  was  one  of  the  ancients ;  but  he  always  said  M.  Racine 
and  M.  Boileau,  as  those  great  men  had  been  almost  his  con- 
temporaries. The  purport  of  tlie  piece  was  that,  because  a 
man  had  failed  to  write  a  perfect  work,  he  had  not  thereby 


THE  ENGLISH  LETTERS   PUBLISIffiD.  291 

forfeited  Lis  claim  to  decent  civility,  and  that  men  who  as- 
sumed to  criticise  others  should  set  an  example,  not  only  of 
just  thinking,  but  of  good  breeding  also. 

Another  of  these  pieces  was  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  his 
secretary  and  nascent  poet,  Lefevre,  upon  the  "  Inconven- 
iences attached  to  Literature."  He  tells  this  young  man 
what  he  might  expect  if  he  should  ever  be  so  unfortunate  as 
to  write  a  good  book  in  France:  first,  a  year  of  suspense  and 
solicitation  while  the  censor  held  the  manuscript ;  next,  to  be 
torn  to  pieces  by  the  gazettes,  which  sell  in  proportion  as  they 
are  malignant  and  abusive.  It  would  be  worse  if  he  wrote  for 
the  stage  :  the  actors,  justly  indignant  at  the  abasement  to 
which  the  law  condemns  them,  lavish  upon  an  author  all  the 
contempt  with  which  they  are  covered  ;  and  the  piece  being 
at  last  performed,  one  bad  joke  from  the  pit  gives  it  its  quie- 
tus. You  succeed  ?  Then  you  are  burlesqued  at  the  minor 
theatres,  twenty  pamphlets  prove  that  you  ought  not  to  have 
succeeded,  and  the  learned  affect  to  despise  you  because  you 
write  in  French.  Trembling,  you  carry  your  work  to  a  lady 
of  the  court :  she  gives  it  to  her  maid  to  make  into  curl-pa- 
pers ;  and  the  laced  lackey  who  wears  the  livery  of  luxury 
derides  your  coat,  which  is  the  livery  of  indigence.  After 
forty  years  of  toil,  you  intrigue  a  place  in  the  Academy,  and 
go  to  pronounce  with  broken  voice  an  oration  which  will  be 
forgotten  the  next  day  forever.  "  One  regrets  to  see  the  de- 
vice of  immortality  at  the  head  of  so  many  declamations,  which 
announce  nothing  of  eternal  except  the  oblivion  to  which  they 
are  condemned."  All  this  in  the  lightest  manner,  sown  thick 
with  those  happy  touches  and  allusions  which  make  a  piece 
readable.  * 

The  third  of  these  defensive,  propitiatory  pieces  was  in  the 
guise  of  a  "  Letter  to  a  Chief  Clerk,"  a  personage  to  whom  a 
minister  might  be  supposed  to  consign  a  new  book  for  exam- 
ination, and  who  therefore  had  a  certain  power  over  literature. 
He  asks  this  imaginary  clerk  to  remember,  when  he  is  exam- 
ining a  work,  that  if  there  had  been  a  literary  inquisition  at 
Rome  we  should  not  possess  Horace  or  Juvenal,  nor  the  philo- 
sophical works  of  Cicero  ;  and  if  in  England,  not  Milton,  Dry- 
den,  Pope,  or  Locke.  "  Repress  libels,  repress  obscene  tales, 
but  let  honest  thought  be  free  ;  let  not  Bayle  be  contraband." 


292  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

He  called  attention  to  the  commercial  aspects  of  the  case : 
"The  thonglits  of  men  have  become  an  important  article  of 
commerce  ;  Dutch  booksellers  gain  a  million  a  year  because 
Frenchmen  have  had  intellect.  The  genius  of  Moliere,  Cor- 
neille,  Racine,  and  the  dramatists  formed  by  them  lure  to 
Paris  great  numbers  of  people  from  remote  provinces  and 
states,  who  come  to  enjoy  pleasures  nobler  than  those  of  sense. 
Foreigners  who  hate  France  bow  in  grateful  homage  to  French 
genius.  A  magistrate  who  presumes  to  think  that,  because 
he  has  bought  a  seat  on  the  bench,  it  is  beneath  his  dignity  to 
see  '  Cinna '  performed  shows  much  gravity  and  little  taste." 
The  Romans  built  prodigies  of  architecture  in  which  to  wit- 
ness the  combats  of  beasts,  and  Paris  had  not  one  passable 
theatre  for  the  presentation  of  the  masterpieces  of  the  human 
mind.  "  What  man  in  Paris  is  animated  by  a  regard  for  the 
public  welfare  ?  We  gamble,  we  sup,  we  slander,  we  make 
bad  songs,  and  go  to  sleep  in  stupidity,  only  to  begin  again  on 
the  morrow  our  round  of  lightness  and  indifference.  Try, 
monsieur,  to  rouse  us  from  this  barbarous  lethargy,  and,  if  you 
can,  do  something  for  letters,  which  do  so  much  for  France!  "  ^ 

Thus  he  strove  to  make  a  party  in  France  for  the  rights  of 
the  human  mind.  Shakespeare,  during  the  dismalest  period 
of  Puritanism,  found  a  public  in  London  capable  of  draw- 
ing from  him,  and  generously  rewarding,  the  sublimest  of  his 
tragedies,  the  most  exquisite  of  his  comedies.  But  Shake- 
speare confined  himself  to  his  vocation,  and  did  not  write 
"  Temples  of  Taste."  As  dramatist,  Voltaire,  too,  could  have 
lived  at  the  capital  of  his  country ;  but  the  drama,  much  as  he 
loved  it,  was  really,  at  times,  little  more  than  the  price  he  was 
willing  to  pay  for  the  opportunity  to  act  directly  upon  the  in- 
tellect of  France.  It  was  a  custom  with  him,  all  his  life,  when- 
ever the  storm  howled  menacingly  about  him,  to  divert  public 
attention  and  disarm  prejudiced  authority  by  producing  a  new 
play.  Twice  lately  he  had  declared  his  firm  resolve  never  to 
write  another  play  :  once  in  the  preface  to  "  Zaire,"  and  again 
in  the  "  Temple  du  Gout."  He  laughed  when  the  revised 
"  Temple  du  Gout  "  was  brought  to  him  on  the  day  of  publi- 
cation, for  he  was  just  beginning  a  new  tragedy. 

That  ingenious  composition  proved  to  be  more  than  the  sen- 
1  62  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  26  to  51, 


THE  ENGLISH  LETTERS   PUBLISHED.  293 

sation  of  a  week.  "It  is  detested  and  read  by  all  the  world," 
wrote  the  author  in  1733.  It  was  burlesqued  at  the  Marion- 
nettes.  Sick  Punchinello  applies  to  a  doctor,  who  advises 
blows  with  a  stick,  to  make  the  patient  sweat.  "  I  have  al- 
ready tried  that  remedy,"  says  Punchinello,  "  and  it  did  me 
no  good."  Another  doctor  advises  purgation  and  lavements^ 
our  poet's  well-known  remedies  ;  and  so  he  finally  reaches  the 
Temple  du  Gout,  where  he  is  enthroned  upon  a  chaise  pereee. 
This  exhibition  was  stopped  by  the  police.  In  July,  1733,  a 
dramatic  burlesque  of  the  piece  was  given  at  one  of  the  minor 
theatres,  wherein  Voltaire  himself  was  personated,  dressed  as 
a  Frenchman,  but  in  an  English  fabric  of  large  pattern.  He 
was  made  to  talk,  as  an  indignant  spectator  records,  "  like  a 
fool,  a  perfect  ninny,  full  of  himself,  who  pokes  his  nose  into 
everything,  devoid  of  taste  and  judgment,  finding  nothing  good 
except  his  own  works."  The  burlesque  was  vehemently  ap- 
plauded, and  ran  many  nights.  "  For  my  part,"  says  the  spec- 
tator just  quoted,  "  my  heart  is  pierced  ;  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
one  of  the  brightest  spirits  of  France  treated  so."  ^ 

The  ministry,  he  adds,  were  besought  to  suppress  this  play 
also,  but  refused,  "  being  not  unwilling  to  mortify  a  too  bold 
spirit,  and  to  punish  him  for  certain  truths  scattered  here  and 
there  in  his  works."  Jordan  may  refer  here  to  the  new  edi- 
tion of  his  "  works "  published  in  Holland,  which  excited  in 
the  author's  own  mind  lively  apprehensions.  The  editors,  he 
remarked  to  Cideville,  have  taken  care,  whenever  there  were 
two  readings  of  a  passage,  "  to  print  the  most  dangerous  and 
the  most  hurnahle.     I  shall  keep  it  out  of  France." 

The  tide  still  running  strongly  against  him,  he  tried  his  de- 
vice of  bringing  out  the  new  play,  that  "  Ad^ilaide  du  Gaes- 
clin,"  in  which  once  more  he  used  a  romantic  French  subject 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  introduced  French  historic  names. 
The  very  first  act  did  not  escape  hissing.  During  the  second, 
when  a  Duke  de  Nemours  came  upon  the  stage  wounded,  his 
arm  in  a  sling,  the  audacity  of  such  an  approach  to  natural- 
ness called  down  a  storm  of  disapproval.  In  the  last  act, 
when  the  Duke  de  Vendome  said  to  the  Sire  de  Couci,  "  Are 
you  content,  Couci  ?  "  a  person  in  the  pit  cried  out,  Couci- 
Couci!  which  is  a  French  familiar  equivalent  of  omt  So-So. 
1  Voyage  Litteraire,  par  C.  E.  Jordan,  page  64. 


294  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

The  joke  gave  a  convenient  opportunity  to  an  audience  that 
was  ah-eady  in  a  very  damning  humor.  The  theatre  resounded 
with  Couci-  Couci  ;  the  curtain  went  down  to  the  hissing  thun- 
der of  Couci- Couci ;  and  the  piece,  after  one  more  perform- 
ance, was  shelved  for  thirty-one  years.  In  1765  the  actors 
revived  it  from  the  self-same  copy,  and  it  had  a  success  only 
less  pronounced  than  that  of  "  Za'ire."  For  the  present,  how- 
ever, this  attempt  to  present  the  France  of  1387  in  a  romantic 
light  to  the  France  of  1734  only  weakened  the  hold  of  the 
author  upon  his  best  protector,  the  public  of  Paris. 

He  was  in  frequent  alarm  during  the  rest  of  the  year,  for 
he  had  now  gone  so  far  with  his  English  Letters  that  at  any 
moment  a  copy  might  escape.  The  little  book  was  published 
in  London,  and  was  printing  at  Rouen.  His  letters  to  Thieriot, 
Cideville,  Jore,  and  Formont  teem  with  warnings  not  to  let 
loose  a  sheet  of  the  work  until  he  gave  the  signal.  There 
were  times,  he  explained  to  them,  when  almost  anything  could 
be  published  with  impunity,  and  there  were  times  when  the 
censorship  scented  heresy  in  every  doubtful  word.  Such  a 
time,  he  said,  was  then  passing  over  them.  "  Tell  Jore,"  he 
kept  writing  to  his  Rouen  friends,  "  that  if  one  copy  gets  out 
he  will  find  himself  in  the  Bastille,  his  Kcense  forfeited,  his 
family  ruined."  Several  copies,  however,  reached  Paris  early 
in  1734 ;  sent,  perhaps,  as  "  feelers."  The  author  wrote  to 
Formont  in  x4pril,  "The  Letters  philosophical,  political,  poet- 
ical, critical,  heretical,  and  diabolical  are  going  off  in  London, 
in  English,  with  great  success.  But,  then,  the  English  are 
Pope-scorners,  cursed  of  God.  The  Galilean  church,  I  fear, 
will  be  a  little  harder  to  please.  Jore  has  promised  me  a 
fidelity  proof  against  every  temptation.  I  do  not  yet  know 
if  there  has  not  been  some  little  breach  in  his  virtue.  He  is 
strongly  suspected  in  Paris  of  having  sold  some  copies.  He 
has  had  upon  that  subject  a  little  conversation  with  M.  He- 
rault,  lieutenant  of  police,  and,  by  a  miracle  greater  than  all 
those  of  Saint  Paris  and  the  Apostles,  he  is  not  in  the  Bas- 
tille. He  must,  however,  make  up  his  mind  to  go  thither  some 
day.  It  appears  to  me  that  he  has  a  fixed  vocation  for  that 
pleasant  retreat.  I  shall  ti-y  not  to  have  the  honor  of  accom- 
panying him." 

For  the  time  the  danger  seemed  averted,  and  the  author 


4 


THE  ENGLISH  LETTERS   PLT3LISHED.  295 

was  balked  of  his  purpose  to  exhibit  to  France  the  spectacle 
of  a  country  governed  by  law.  The  marriage  of  the  Duke  de 
Richelieu  to  the  Princess  de  Guise  was  about  to  be  celebrated 
at  Monjeu,  near  Autun,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  the  south- 
east of  Paris.  This  was  a  marriage  of  Voltaire's  own  mak- 
ing, as  he  tells  Cideville.  "  I  conducted  the  affair  like  an  in- 
trigue of  comedy."  He  also  drew  up  the  contract,  notary's 
son  as  he  was,  and  traveled  fifty  leagues  "  to  see  the  happy 
pair  put  to  bed,"  in  the  style  of  the  period.  With  him  went 
the  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  a  near  relation  of  the  bridegroom, 
and,  probably,  other  persons  invited  to  the  wedding. 

This  lady,  who  shared  the  poet's  anxieties  with  regard  to 
the  dreadful  book,  having  even  seen  some  of  the  proof  sheets 
at  the  author's  abode  in  the  Rue  de  Longpont,  left  a  servant 
in  Paris  with  orders  to  mount  at  the  first  rumor  of  danger, 
and  ride  with  all  speed  to  give  him  warning.  Friends  likely 
to  get  earlier  news  were  notified  and  put  on  the  alert,  particu- 
larly D'Argental,  for  fifty  years  the  poet's  "  guardian  angel." 
"I  have  a  mortal  aversion  to  a  prison,"  wrote  Voltaire  to  him 
this  spring.      "  I  am  sick,  and  close  air  would  kill  me." 

In  May,  1734,  while  the  author  was  still  at  Monjeu,  the 
storm  burst.  All  at  once,  no  one  knew  whence,  copies  of 
the  book  began  to  circulate  everywhere  in  Paris, —  a  pirated 
edition,  with  the  full  name  of  the  author  on  the  title-page  ! 
Voltaire  had  sent  three  copies  to  be  bound,  some  time  before, 
and  at  the  binder's  shop  the  work  was  read  by  a  printer,  who 
perceived  its  salable  nature.  Penmen  sat  up  all  night ;  the 
whole  book  was  copied;  and,  during  the  Richelieu  honey- 
moon, a  large  edition  was  printed.  Appended  to  the  work, 
and  designed  to  be  bound  with  it,  the  pirate  printer  found  a 
hundred  pages  or  more  of  another  composition,  entitled  "Re- 
marks upon  the  Thoughts  of  Pascal."  The  two  works  had 
little  in  common,  but  they  now  appeared  in  the  same  volume, 
a  mass  of  heresy  and  good  sense,  of  solid  truth  and  amusing 
satire.  Pascal  was  a  fascinating  subject  to  Voltaire ;  as, 
indeed,  he  must  ever  be  to  susceptible  readers,  whether  they 
agi-ee  or  disagree  with  him.  He  was  an  example  of  a  noble 
nature  perverted  and  prostrated  by  panic  fear.  _  As  our 
Pascal,  Jonathan  Edwards,  was  terrified  into  Calvinism  by  a 
fever  that  caused  him  to  be   shaken  over  the  pit  of  hell,  so 


296  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

this  brilliant  and  lovely  Blaise  Pascal,  the  Edwards  of  France, 
was  made  a  craven  Jansenist  by  a  narrow  escape  from  de- 
struction. As  he  was  i-iding,  one  day,  in  Paris,  in  a  carriage 
drawn  by  four  horses,  the  leaders  took  fright,  and,  dashing 
upon  a  bridge  without  railings,  plunged  into  the  water,  and 
drew  the  vehicle  to  the  very  edge  of  the  bridge.  The  traces 
broke,  and  no  one  was  injured.  Pascal,  worn  by  excessive 
study,  nervous  and  weak,  was  paralyzed  by  terror,  and,  for 
months  after,  he  fancied  that  he  saw  an  abyss  yawning  at 
his  side.  Finally,  all  other  fear  was  merged  into  one  supreme 
affright :  Another  inch^  and  his  soul  had  been  eternally 
damned  !  No  more  geometry,  nor  Greek,  nor  natural  science, 
nor  anything  else  profitable  or  pleasant.  Hair  shirt  instead  ; 
an  iron  breastplate,  with  points  to  pierce  his  flesh  ;  cruel 
fasting;  abject,  incessant  prayers.  At  thirty-nine  this  gifted 
man,  a  noble  mind  in  ruins,  had  completed  his  slow  suicide, 
and  left  behind  him  those  Thoughts  of  his,  to  assist  in 
giving  another  lease  of  life  to  the  most  pernicious  theory  of 
man's  duty  that  has  ever  saddened  and  demoralized  human 
nature. 

Voltaire's  comments  were  moderate  and  respectful  in  tone. 
With  his  usual  adroitness  he  calls  his  readers'  attention  to 
the  difficulties  arising  from  accepting  legends  as  history,  rhap- 
sody as  prophecy,  self-annihilation  as  virtue.  Pascal  says,  for 
example,  that  since  there  is  a  God  we  should  love  only  Aiw, 
not  his  creatures.  Voltaire  replies,  "  We  must  love  his  creat- 
ures, and  very  tenderly,  too, —  country,  wife,  father,  children  ; 
we  must  love  them  so  well  that  God  will  make  them  love  us, 
whether  we  wish  it  or  not."  Pascal  exalts  the  Christian  re- 
ligion as  holy  beyond  comjoarison,  and  true  beyond  question. 
"  Think,"  says  Voltaire,  "  that  it  was  on  the  way  to  mass 
that  men  committed  the  massacres  of  Ireland  and  St.  Barthol- 
omew ;  and  that  it  was  after  mass  and  on  account  of  the  mass 
that  so  many  innocent  people,  so  many  mothers,  so  many 
children,  were  murdered  in  the  crusade  against  the  heretics 
of  the  south  of  France.  O  Pascal !  Such  are  the  results 
of  the  endless  quarrels  upon  the  dogmas,  upon  the  mysteries 
that  could  have  no  results  except  quarrels.  There  is  not  an 
article  of  faith  which  has  not  given  birth  to  a  civil  war !  " 

The  volume  containing    the  English    Letters  and  the  Re- 


THE   ENGLISH   LETTERS   PUBLISHED.  297 

marks  upon  Pascal  was  denounced  early  in  May,  1734.  Every 
copy  that  could  be  found  was  seized.  Jore  was  arrested  and 
consigned  to  the  Bastille ;  his  edition  was  confiscated.  A 
lettre  de  cachet  was  launched  against  Voltaire.  The  parlia- 
ment of  Paris  condemned  the  book  to  be  publicly  burned  by 
the  executioner;  which  was  performed  in  Paris,  June  10, 
1734,  in  the  manner  before  described.  The  residence  of  the 
author  was  searched,  its  contents  were  thrown  into  confusion, 
and  some  money  was  stolen  from  it. 

May  11th,  M.  de  la  Briffe,  charged  with  the  duty  of  arrest- 
ing the  author  of  the  offensive  volume,  arrived  at  Monjeu. 
He  was  informed  that  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  was  gone  to  the 
army  to  join  his  regiment,  —  the  regiment  Richelieu,  of  which 
the  duke  was  colonel.  As  to  M.  de  Voltaire,  he  had  left  the 
chateau  on  Thursday  last,  five  days  before.  He  was  gone  to 
Lorraine,  so  the  officer  was  told,  to  drink  the  waters  ;  and 
Lorraine  was  not  yet  part  of  the  dominions  of  the  King  of 
France.  It  is  extremely  probable  that  this  easy  opportunity 
to  get  out  of  the  way  was  intentionally  afforded  him.  M. 
de  la  Briffe,  it  is  thought,  was  neither  surprised  nor  sorry  to 
find  the  bird  flown. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MADAME  DU  ChItELET  AND  HER  CHATEAU. 

An  amusing  page  of  the  St.  Simon  Memoirs  presents  to 
us  the  Baron  de  Breteuil,  reader  to  Louis  XIV.,  and  after- 
wards "  introducer  of  ambassadors."  This  baron,  though  not 
wanting  in  intellect  nor  in  scholarship,  was  very  much  the 
courtier  and  man  of  fashion  ;  ill  informed  on  subjects  out  of 
the  range  of  the  antechamber,  but  not  the  less  positive  on 
that  account  in  expressing  his  opinions.  In  our  rough  way  we 
should  call  him  a  conceited  old  bore.  The  Duke  de  St.  Simon 
more  politely  says  that  he  was  "  endured  and  laughed  at." 
At  the  table  of  the  minister,  M.  de  Pontchartrain,  the  baron 
was  discoursing  one  day  in  his  most  fluent  and  confident  man- 
ner before  a  numerous  company,  when  Madame  de  Pontchar- 
train said  to  him,  "  With  all  your  knowledge,  I  '11  bet  you 
don't  know  who  composed  the  Lord's  Prayer."  The  baron 
laughed,  and  tried  hard  to  pooh-pooh  the  question  as  too  tri- 
fling to  be  answered.  Madame  perceived  his  embarrassment, 
and  mercilessly  pushed  her  advantage.  He  contrived  to  parry 
her  attacks  until  the  company  rose  to  return  to  the  drawing- 
room.  On  the  way,  M.  de  Caumartin,  his  relation,  whispered 
in  his  ear,  "  Moses  !  "  The  baron  at  once  recovered  his  self- 
confidence,  and,  when  the  guests  were  seated,  renewed  the 
topic,  again  insisting  that  he  was  ashamed  to  answer  a  ques- 
tion so  trivial.  IMadame  still  defying  him  to  name  the  author, 
he  said  9,t  length,  "  There  is  no  one  who  does  not  know  that 
Moses  wrote  the  Lord's  Prayer."  A  roar  of  laughter  followed, 
and  the  poor  baron,  as  St.  Simon  remarks,  "could  no  longer 
find  a  door  to  get  out  b}^"  ^  It  was  long  before  he  could  for- 
give Caumartin,  and  longer  before  the  story  ceased  to  be  one 
of  the  standard  jests  of  the  court. 

This  Baron  de  Breteuil  was  the  father  of  Madame  du  Chite- 

1  2  Memoires  de  St.  Simon,  145.     Paris,  1873. 


i 


MADAME   DU  CHATELET  AND   HER   CHATEAU.  209 

let,  wliom  Voltaire  accompanied  to  the  wedding  at  Monjeu. 
He  had  seen  her  when  she  was  a  child  ;  perhaps  at  the  house 
of  M.  de  Caumartin,  when  he  was  a  young  fugitive  from 
Maitre  Alain's  dusty  solicitor's  office.  She  had  forgotten 
him,  for  they  did  not  meet  again  until  1733,  when  she  was  a 
married  woman,  twenty-seven  years  of  age,  the  mother  of 
three  children,  namely,  Pauline,  seven  years  old,  Louis,  five, 
and  Victor,  an  infant,  born  in  April  of  that  very  year,  1733.^ 

This  lady  concerned  herself  with  the  paternoster  as  little 
as  her  father,  and  she  was  probably  neither  less  fluent  nor  less 
positive  than  the  hero  of  St.  Simon's  anecdote.  At  fifteen  she 
began  to  write  a  translation  of  Virgil's  "  ^neid  "  in  verse,  some 
jDortions  of  which  Voltaire  afterwards  read,  and  often  extolled. 
From  childhood  she  was  a  student  and  a  reader.  It  is  not- 
necessary  to  deduct  too  much  from  the  eulogium  of  Voltaire, 
who  was  her  lover  for  many  years  and  her  friend  always.  Her 
writings  show  that  she  was  a  woman  of  some  ability,  and  we 
know  from  several  well-authenticated  anecdotes  that  her  math- 
ematical talent  was  extraordinary.  Born  in  a  better  time  and 
reared  amid  better  influences,  she  might  have  won  the  respect 
of  Europe  by  such  work  as  Mrs.  Somerville,  Miss  Herschel, 
and  Miss  INIitchell  have  since  performed,  and  left  a  reputation 
as  cheering  as  theirs. 

Her  discourse  on  the  "  Existence  of  God  "  is  as  good  an 
argument  as  we  can  ever  expect  from  a  lady  who  does  not 
perceive  the  graver  and  newer  difficulties  of  the  question. 
Her  opening  remark  has  been  frequently  used  by  theologians 
since  her  day,  to  the  effect  that  God  is,  if  possible,  more  neces- 
sary to  physical  science  than  to  moral,  and  ought  to  be  the 
foundation  and  conclusion  of  all  scientific  research.  From  this 
she  proceeds  in  the  usual  way  :  "  Something  exists,  since  I  ex- 
ist ;  and  since  something  exists,  something  must  always  have 
existed."  In  treating  the  question  of  the  origin  of  evil  she 
uses  the  metaphysical  phrases  of  the  century  very  neatly,  and 
the  composition  is  one  that  would  do  credit  to  a  New  England 
preceptress  of  a  later  day. 

Not  so  madame's  "  Reflections  upon  Happiness."    In  order 
to  be  happy,  she  tells  us,  we  must  be  free  from  prejudices, 
virtuous,  in  good  health,  capable  of  illusions,  and  have  tastes 
1  Lettres  de  la  Marquise  du  ChStelet,  Paris,  1878,  pag<  8. 


300  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

and  passions.  Rational  self-indulgence  is  her  idea  of  happi- 
ness, which  is  not  that  of  a  New  England  preceptress.  In  this 
treatise  she  breaks  occasionally  into  autobiograj^hy :  "I  have 
a  very  good  constitution,  but  I  am  not  robust.  There  are  cer- 
tain things  which  surely  destroy  my  health,  such  as  wine,  for 
example,  and  all  sorts  of  liquors  ;  and  so  from  my  earliest 
youth  I  have  refrained  from  them.  I  have  a  temperament  of 
fire  ;  hence  I  pass  the  morning  in  drowning  myself  with  liq- 
uids. Finally,  I  often  give  myself  up  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
table,  which  God  has  given  me  a  capacity  for ;  but  I  make  up 
for  those  excesses  by  a  severe  regimen,  which  I  begin  the  mo- 
ment I  feel  any  inconvenience,  and  thus  I  always  avoid  dis- 
ease." 

Beautiful  she  was  not,  nor  well-formed.  She  was  tall,  rather 
bony,  with  flat  chest  and  large  limbs  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  had  fine  eyes  and  a  spacious,  noble  forehead,  abundant  fine 
black  hair,  and  a  pleasing  cast  of  countenance.  At  twenty- 
seven,  when  Voltaire  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  her,  she 
was  far  from  wanting  personal  charms.  So  Maupertuis  re- 
cords, who  was  giving  her  lessons  in  geometry  at  the  time ;  so 
testifies  Madame  Denis,  Voltaire's  niece  ;  and  so  Latour,  the 
painter  of  her  portrait,  which  still  exists.  They  all  record, 
too,  and  the  marquise  herself  mentions  the  fact,  that  she  was 
disposed  to  heighten  the  effect  of  her  good  points  by  all  the 
means  which  art  and  nature  have  placed  within  woman's  reach. 
She  was  fond  of  dress  and  decoration,  fond  of  gaming,  addicted 
to  all  the  pleasures  of  her  time  and  sphere.  She  played  very 
well  on  the  spinet,  and  could  converse  on  all  the  topics,  from 
bricabrac  to  Newton's  "  Principia." 

At  nineteen  she  was  married  to  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet, 
an  officer  of  ancient  house  and  dilapidated  fortune,  a  tractable 
young  man,  without  conversation,  with  not  the  least  tincture 
of  literature,  and  extremely  complaisant  to  his  wife.  The  gos- 
sip of  the  day  assigned  her  various  lovers,  the  Duke  de  Riche- 
lieu among  the  rest ;  and  we  have  many  letters  of  hers  to  the 
duke,  written  in  her  later  life,  and  they  certainly  read  like  the 
letters  of  a  woman  to  a  former  lover.  Neither  husband  nor 
wife  had  any  scruples  of  principle  or  feeling  with  regard  to 
miscellaneous  amours.  Like  the  society  around  them,  they 
had  resumed  the  morals  of  primitive  man. 


MADAME  DU  CHATELET  AND   HER   CHATEAU.  801 

It  was  early  in  the  summer  of  1733,  not  later  than  June, 
that  Voltaire  and  Madame  du  Chatelet  met  in  Paris  :  she,  a 
woman  of  fashion  studying  mathematics  under  Maupertuis  | 
and  he  immersed  as  usual  in  poetry  and  business.  They  soon 
became  warmly  attached  to  one  another.  In  July  he  ad- 
dressed to  her  a  poetical  epistle  upon  Calumny,  styling  her 
in  the  first  line  respectable  Emilie.  Then  we  see  the  lady  and 
her  friend,  the  Duchess  de  Saint  Pierre,  surprising  the  poet 
in  his  "hole,"  as  he  liked  to  call  his  lodgings  in  the  Rue  de 
Longpont.  He  did  his  best  to  entertain  them,  extemporized 
a  repast  of  fricasseed  chickens,  and  sent  them  a  poetical  invi- 
tation to  supper.  She  was  Emilie  to  him  henceforth  as  long 
as  she  lived.  "  Who  is  Emilie  ?  "  asks  Cideville,  on  reading 
the  epistle  upon  Calumny.  Voltaire  replies,  "  You  are  Emilie 
in  the  form  of  man,  and  she  is  Cideville  in  that  of  woman." 
In  November  she  was  taking  lessons  in  English.  "  She  learned 
it,"  wrote  Voltaire,  "  in  fifteen  days.  Already  she  translates 
at  sight ;  she  has  had  but  five  lessons  of  an  Irish  teacher.  In- 
deed, Madame  du  Chatelet  is  a  prodigy."  He  began  to  think 
that  women  could  do  whatever,  men  could  do,  and  that  the 
only  difference  between  them  was  that  women  were  more  ami- 
able.    "My  little  system,"  he  styled  this  novel  opinion. 

What  of  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet?  Nothing  at  all.  He 
viewed  this  enthusiastic  friendship  with  an  equanimity  that 
was  never  disturbed.  During  their  liaison  of  sixteen  years, 
this  docile  and  tolerant  soldier  frequented  his  abode  quite  as 
usual,  and  remained  on  the  most  cordial  terms  with  a  poet 
who  lent  him  money,  and  drew  the  fire  of  a  wife  perhaps  op- 
pressively superior.  All  this,  I  repeat,  being  simply  incon- 
ceivable to  persons  of  our  race,  it  were  useless  to  expend  words 
upon  it.  These  people  had  amended  one  of  the  ancient  com- 
mandments by  striking  out  the  word  not,  and  adding,  "  but 
thou  shalt  commit  no  indecorum."  Voltaire  obeyed  this  lat- 
ter amendment  with  ingenious  consistency  as  long  as  he  lived. 

It  is  a  wonder  how  children  were  brought  up  under  this 
new  dispensation.  Many  of  them  were  reared  by  good  and 
faithful  servants  who  adhered  to  the  old  dispensation.  Some 
had  the  ill  luck  of  Talleyrand,  whose  mother  scarcely  saw  him 
during  his  infancy,  and  who  came  back  to  her  from  his  nurse 
lamed  for  life.     Not  a  few,  doubtless,  had  the  fat^  which  be- 


802  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

fell  the  infant  of  tlie  Marquise  da  Cliatelet.  We  have  a  note 
of  hers,  written  on  a  Sunday  evening  in  January,  1734,  to 
Maupertuis,  her  professor  of  mathematics,  which  explains  what 
that  fate  was  :  "  My  son  died  to-night,  monsieur.  I  avow  to 
you  that  I  am  extremely  afflicted  at  it,  and  I  shall  not  go  out, 
as  you  may  well  believe.  If  you  wish  to  come  to  console  me, 
YOU  will  find  me  alone.  I  refuse  to  admit  company,  but  I  feel 
that  there  is  no  time  when  it  will  not  give  me  extreme  pleas- 
ure to  see  you." 

In  April,  1734,  as  we  have  seen,  she  accompanied  Voltaire 
to  the  Chateau  de  Saint-Blaise,  near  Autun,  the  abode  of 
the  Prince  de  Guise,  where  she  witnessed  the  marriage  of  a 
princess  of  the  house  to  the  Duke  de  Richelieu.  It  was  a 
honeymoon  to  two  pairs  of  lovers,  those  weeks  spent  at  the 
magnificent  chateau  of  the  Guises.  She  wrote  to  Maupertuis 
that,  between  Voltaire  and  the  amiable  Duchess  de  Richelieu, 
she  was  passing  blissful  da3S,  and  that  nothing  was  wanting 
to  her  happiness  but  her  daily  lesson  in  geometry.  The  sol- 
diers departed  at  length  for  the  army,  leaving  to  the  ladies 
the  full  enjoyment  of  their  poet.  Dread  rumors  from  Paris 
arrived  to  trouble  the  peace  of  this  Arcadia,  and  soon  a  hint 
came  direct  from  the  cabinet  of  a  minister  that  the  author  of 
the  English  Letters  would  do  well  to  leave  the  Chateau  de 
Saint-Blaise,  and  "  absent  himself."  He  acted  upon  this  hint, 
and  left  two  ladies  inconsolable.  The  marquise  and  himself 
had  intended  to  return  to  Paris  in  three  weeks,  and  now,  in  a 
moment,  they  were  separated,  perhaps  never  again  to  meet  in 
France.  For  some  days  she  thought  that  probably  the  lattre 
de  cachet  had  overtaken  him,  and  that  he  was  actually  con- 
fined in  the  fortress  of  Auxonne,  to  which  it  consigned  him. 
"If  he  was  in  England,"  she  wrote  to  a  friend,  May  12th,  "I 
should  be  less  to  be  pitied.  I  love  my  friends  with  some  dis- 
interestedness. His  companionship  would  make  the  happi- 
ness of  my  life  ;  his  safety  would  make  its  tranquillity.  But 
to  know  that  he,  with  such  health  and  imagination  as  he  has, 
is  in  a  prison,  I  assure  you,  I  do  not  find  in  myself  constancy 
enough  to  support  the  idea.  Madame  de  Richelieu  is  my  |j 
only  consolation,  —  a  charming  woman,  with  a  heart  capable 
of  friendship  and  gratitude.  She  is,  if  possible,  more  afflicted 
than  I  am  ;  for  she  owes  to  him  her  marriage,  the  happiness 
of  her  life." 


MADAME  DU   CHATELET   AND  HER   CHATEAU.  303 

News  from  the  fugitive  reassured  her  ;  at  least  he  was  not 
in  a  fortress.  But  the  minister  was  adamant ;  the  parliament 
of  Paris  was  burning  the  terrible  little  book  ;  there  was  small 
hope  of  the  author  ever  being  permitted  to  live  again  in 
France.  "  I  shall  retire  at  once  to  my  chateau,"  wrote  the 
marquise.  "  Men  have  become  insupportable  ;  so  false  are 
they,  so  unjust,  so  full  of  prejudices,  so  tyrannical." 

Meanwhile  she  used  her  knowledge  of  court  and  cabinet  in 
his  behalf.  Born  and  reared  at  court,  she  knew  what  woman 
governed  each  powerful  man,  what  man  controlled  each  influ- 
ential woman,  and  how  all  these  were  to  be  reached.  She 
brought  to  bear  her  connection,  the  Duchess  d'Aiguillon,  upon 
the  Princess  de  Conti,  who  had  great  weight  with  an  adaman- 
tine Keeper  of  the  Seals ;  and,  in  consequence,  better  news 
came  from  Paris.  Hope  revived.  If  Voltaire  would  disavow 
the  offensive  book,  the  lettre  de  cachet  might  be  canceled,  and 
the  storm  blow  over.  It  never  cost  Voltaire  the  most  mo- 
mentary scruple  to  disavow  anything  that  had  a  savor  of  the 
Bastille  in  it.  His  disavowals  never  deceived  one  human  be- 
ing, least  of  all  the  ministry  that  demanded  them.  They  were 
not  intended  nor  expected  to  deceive.  On  this  occasion  he 
disavowed,  as  Madame  du  Chatelet  remarked,  "  with  affecting 
docility."  If  she  refers  to  his  letter  of  May,  1734,  to  the 
interceding  Duchess  d'Aiguillon,  she  uses  undescriptive  lan- 
guage. 

"  They  say  I  must  retract,"  he  wrote  to  the  amiable  duchess. 
"  Very  willingly.  I  will  declare  that  Pascal  is  always  right ; 
that  if  St.  Luke  and  St.  Mark  contradict  one  another  it  is  a 
proof  of  the  truth  of  religion  to  those  who  know  well  how  to 
take  things  ;  that  another  lovely  proof  of  religion  is  that  it  is 
unintelligible.  I  will  avow  that  all  priests  are  gentle  and  dis- 
interested ;  that  Jesuits  are  honest  people ;  that  monks  are 
neither  proud,  nor  given  to  intrigue,  nor  stinking;  that  the 
holy  inquisition  is  the  triumph  of  humanity  and  tolerance. 
In  a  word,  I  will  say  all  that  may  be  desired  of  me,  provided 
they  will  leave  me  in  repose,  and  not  indulge  the  mania  to 
persecute  a  man  who  has  never  done  harm  to  any  one,  who 
lives  in  retirement,  and  who  knows  no  other  ambition  but  that 
of  paying  court  to  you.  It  is  certain,  besides,  that  the  edition 
was   published  in  spite  of  me,  that  many  things   lave  been 


304  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIEE. 

added  to  it,  and  that  I  have  done  all  that  was  humanly  possi- 
ble to  discover  the  publisher.  Permit  me,  madame,  to  renew 
my  thanks  and  prayers.  The  favor  I  ask  of  the  minister  is 
that  he  will  not  deprive  me  of  the  honor  of  seeing  you.  It  is 
a  favor  for  which  I  should  not  know  how  to  importune  him  too 
much." 

Other  friends  joined  their  efforts.  Madame  du  Deffand 
wrought  upon  M.  de  Maurepas.  The  Princess  de  Conti,  the 
Duchess  du  Maine,  the  Duchess  de  Villars,  the  Duchess  de 
Richelieu,  and  other  ladies  plied  their  arts  and  employed 
their  influence,  the  poet  himself  ever  writing  as  he  flew.  The 
pursuit  was  relaxed,  and  Madame  du  Chatelet  was  so  far  re- 
assured as  to  be  able  to  resume  her  geometry.  She  told  her 
Maupertuis  that  he  would  find  her  just  where  he  had  left 
her,  having  forgotten  nothing  and  learned  nothing,  but  cher- 
ishing the  same  desire  to  make  a  progress  in  geometry  worthy 
of  such  a  master.  She  had  taken  up  a  treatise  by  Guisnee 
upon  the  application  of  algebra  to  geometry,  but  could  make 
nothing  of  it,  and  was  impatient  for  his  assistance.  "  You 
sow  flowers  upon  a  road  where  others  find  only  ruts.  Your 
imagination  knows  how  to  embellish  the  driest  subjects  with- 
out taking  from  them  their  accuracy  and  precision.  I  feel 
how  much  I  should  lose  if  I  did  not  profit  by  your  goodness 
in  condescending  to  my  weakness,  and  in  teaching  me  truths 
so  sublime  almost  in  jesting.  I  feel  that  I  shall  always  have 
over  you  the  advantage  of  having  studied  under  the  most 
amiable  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  profound  mathema- 
tician in  the  world."'  In  many  letters  of  this  period  she  pours 
forth  the  warmest  expressions  of  gratitude  and  affection  for 
her  instructor ;  scolding  him  also,  now  and  then,  for  not 
Avriting  to  her  oftener  than  once  a  week,  and  failing  some- 
times to  comiC  to  her  suppers  in  Paris.  In  June,  she  went  to 
Versailles  to  continue  her  efforts  on  behalf  of  the  wanderer, 
and  passed  the  summer  near  the  court.  She  was  one  of  the 
ladies  whose  rank  gave  them  the  right  of  tambour  with  the 
queen ;  that  is,  the  right  of  sitting  on  a  stool  in  the  queen's 
presence,  a  tremendous  privilege,  to  get  which  women  schemed 
for  a  life-time,  and  "  jumped  the  life  to  come." 

The  fugitive,  where  was  he  ?     The  nobility   of  a  French 
province  were  a  family  party,  inhabiting  various  chateaux,  but 


MADAME  DU  ChItELET  AND  HER  CHATEAU.     305 

connected  by  all  the  ties  of  blood,  usage,  and  interest.  During 
the  pleasant  weeks  of  May  and  June,  the  poet  moved  about 
from  chateau  to  chateau  once  more,  always  near  the  border, 
constantly  advised  of  possible  danger  by  madame  la  marquise, 
and  obeying  her  injunctions  with  "  affecting  docility."  He 
spent  some  days  at  Cirey,  in  Champagne,  where  the  Du 
Chatelets  had  an  old  chateau ;  and  while  there  he  heard  news 
that  drew  his  attention  from  his  own  affairs,  and  changed  the 
direction  of  his  thoughts.  The  Duke  de  Richelieu,  on  re- 
joining his  regiment  before  Philipsburgh  (now  Udenheim) 
in  Baden,  met  some  of  his  new  relatives  of  the  house  of 
Guise,  two  of  whom,  the  Prince  de  Lixin  and  the  Prince  de 
Pons,  had  refused  to  sign  the  marriage  contract.  They  ob- 
jected to  a  marriage  negotiated  by  a  poet  as  he  would  have 
arranged  a  marriage  in  the  last  act  of  a  comedy.  An  alter- 
cation occurred,  ending  in  a  duel  between  the  bridegroom  and 
M.  de  Lixin.  The  rumor  reached  Voltaire  that  the  Prince 
de  Lixin  had  died  upon  the  field,  and  that  the  Duke  de  Riche- 
lieu was  severely  wounded,  perhaps  mortally.  He  hastened 
to  the  camp,  appalled  at  such  a  tragic  ending  of  his  comedy. 
He  found  both  combatants  in  \evy  good  condition  ;  at  least, 
not  seriously  damaged,  and  able  to  bear  the  hardships  of  wiar. 
Colonel  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  was"  making  war  in  the  true 
Xerxes  manner,  with  a  personal  train  of  seventy  mules,  thirty 
horses,  and  a  proportionate  number  of  servants.  Other  great 
lords  were  similarly  equipped.  The  author,  proscribed  at 
Paris,  was  received  with  enthusiasm  at  the  camp,  where  he 
was  feted  by  princes  and  marshals,  and  where,  perhaps,  he 
tasted  the  provisions  supplied  by  Duverney  and  Voltaire, 
contractors.  The  ministry,  supposing  that  his  visit  to  the 
army  was  of  the  nature  of  a  bravado,  hardened  towards  him 
again,  and  Madame  du  Ch^telet  advised  him  to  cut  his  visit 
short.  The  siege,  moreover,  was  becoming  more  active  than 
was  convenient  to  visitors. 

"  The  troops  show  great  ardor  [he  wrote  to  a  lady  of  Cirey,  July 
1st].  It  is  astonishing.  We  swear  we  will  beat  the  Prince  Eugene  ; 
we  are  not  afraid  of  him ;  but,  notwithstanding,  we  intrench  to  the 
teeth ;  we  have  lines,  a  ditch,  pits,  and  another  ditch  in  advance,  — 
a  new  invention,  which  looks  very  pretty  and  very  well  contrived  to 
break  the  necks  of  people  who  come  to  attack  our   lines.     All  the 

VOL.  I.  20    ,  ■'' 


306  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

indications  are  that  the  Prince  Eugene  is  going  to  attempt  the  pas- 
sage of  the  pits  and  the  ditches  about  four  in  the  morning,  to-morrow, 
Friday,  the  day  of  the  Virgin.  He  is  said  to  be  much  devoted  to 
Mary,  and  she  is  likely  to  side  with  him  against  our  general,  who  is 
a  Jansenist.  You  are  aware,  madame,  that  you  Jansenists  are  sus- 
pected not  to  be  sufficiently  devoted  to  the  Virgin ;  you  ridicule  the 
society  of  Jesuits,  and  Paradise  opened  to  Philagie  hy  one  hundred 
and  one  Devotions  to  the  Mother  of  God.  We  shall  see  to-morrow 
for  whom  victory  will  declare  itself.  Meanwhile,  we  cannonade  one 
another  powerfully.  The  lines  of  our  camp  are  fringed  by  eighty 
pieces  of  cannon,  which  are  beginning  to  play.  Yesterday  we  finished 
carrying  a  certain  horn-work,  half  of  which  M.  de  Belle-Isle  had 
already  taken.  Twelve  officers  of  the  guards  were  wounded  at  that 
cursed  work.  Behold,  madame,  human  folly  in  all  its  glory  and  all 
its  horror  !  I  intend  to  leave  forthwith  the  sojourn  of  bombs  and 
bullets." 

Toward  the  end  of  July,  after  a  merry  visit  of  two  or  three 
weeks,  he  left  the  camp,  and  returned  to  his  "  hiding-place  ;" 
for  so  he  called  the  dilapidated  old  castle  belonging  to  the 
Marquis  du  Chatelet,  in  Champagne,  —  "  my  chateau,"  to  which 
madame  la  marquise  threatened  to  retire  from  contact  with 
prejudiced,  proud,  and  tyrannical  men.  The  lady  had  rarely, 
if  ever,  lived  in  this  sequestered  relic  of  the  thirteenth  cent- 
ury. It  "was,  indeed,  scarcely  inhabitable  without  extensive 
repairs,  which  the  family  could  not  afford.  The  marquis  had 
IK)  great  income  for  his  rank  ;  and  he  had  a  wife  fond  of  play 
and  pleasure ;  he  had  two  children ;  he  had  a  lawsuit  of  eighty 
years'  standing  ;  he  belonged  to  an  army  of  which  a  colonel 
could  take  to  the  field  a  retinue  of  one  hundred  animals  and 
thirty  servants.  At  the  best,  the  chateau  of  Cirey  would  not 
naturally  have  been  an  inviting  abode  to  a  lady  accustomed 
from  infancy  to  the  magnificences  of  Versailles  and  the  charms 
of  Fontainebleau.  Suddenly,  however,  the  old  castle  near  the 
border  (and  because  it  was  near  the  border)  became  an  object 
of  extreme  interest  to  madame,  to  her  poet,  and  to  a  complai- 
sant husband. 

A  dream  of  a  place  in  the  country,  a  lodge  in  some  accessi- 
ble, well-kept,  pleasant  wilderness,  where  glorious  things  could 
be  composed  in  peace  and  love,  far  from  the  distractions 
of  the  world,  floats  ever  before  the  minds  of  the  toil-worn 
votaries  of   literature.     "  I  have   a   passion   for   retirement," 


MADAME  DU  CHItELET  AND  HER  CHiXEAU.     307 

Voltaire  repeats  many  times.  "  I  am  a  fawn,  out  of  place 
except  in  sylvan  scenes,"  he  writes  more  than  once.  He  truly 
loved  the  country,  as  actors  love  it,  as  many  other  men  love  it 
whose  occupations  are  extremely  remote  from  country'-  things 
and  ways.  The  idea  now  occurred  to  convert  this  ancient 
abode  of  the  Du  Chatelets  into  such  a  retreat  as  he  had  loncred 
for,  to  which  all  of  them  could  remove,  the  marquis,  madame, 
the  children,  and  the  poet,  making  it  their  chief  abode  ;  where 
a  persecuted  author  could  write  immortal  works,  and  a  lady 
of  great  intellect  could  study  mathematics  and  compose  trea- 
tises on  the  Existence  of  a  Supreme  Being.  So  thought,  so 
done.  Voltaire  had  the  honor  of  lending  the  marquis  forty 
thousand  francs  for  repairs,  at  an  interest  of  five  per  cent., 
not  paid,  and  the  work  of  reparation  was  begun  at  once.^ 

Cirey-sur-Blaise  (there  are  six  Cireys  in  France)  is  a  hard 
place  to  find,  whether  you  look  for  it  on  the  map  or  in  the 
department  of  Haute-Marne,  as  that  part  of  the  old  province 
of  Champagne  is  now  called.  A  part  of  the  old  chateau  still 
stands,  and  belongs  to  the  estate  of  a  descendant  of  the  Du 
Chatelets,  the  late  Marquis  de  Damas.  In  1863,  the  historian, 
George  Grote,  gave  up  the  project  of  a  pilgrimage  to  it. 
"  We  next,"  records  Mrs.  Grote,  "  made  a  detour  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  visiting  the  Chateau  de  Cirey,  dear  to  us 
both  as  the  residence,  a  century  ago,  of  Voltaire  and  Madame 
du  Chatelet.  But  in  this  pious  pilgrimage  we  were  defeated 
by  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  any  manner  of  conveyance  to 
Cirey.  We  got  within  sixteen  English  miles  of  it  at  Joinville  ; 
from  which  pleasant  village  we  could  find  neither  cart  nor 
carriage  for  love  or  money  during  our  stay."  ^  They  should 
have  gone  to  Chaumont-sur-Marne,  the  chief  town  of  the  de- 
partment, a  city  of  seven  thousand  inhabitants,  the  centre  of 
the  iron  trade  and  of  the  iron  manufacture  of  that  iron- 
yielding  region.  The  landlord  of  the  "  Ecu  de  France  "  would 
probably  have  been  only  too  happy  to  provide  a  vehicle  for 
illustrious  English  travelers. 

It  Avas  already  a  land  of  forges  and  iron  mines  when  Voltaire 
went  into  hiding  there  in  the  summer  of  1734,  the  famous 
wine  country  lying  a  little  to  the  north  of  it,  and  showing  such 

1  Voltaire  to  Comtesse  de  Montrcvel,  November  15,  1749.     72  (Euvres,  92. 

2  Personal  Life  of  George  Grote,  by  Mrs.  Grote,  page  270. 


308  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

names  as  Sillery,  Epernay,  Verzenay,  and  others  that  now 
figure  on  the  labels  of  wine  bottles.  Around  Cirey  the  coun- 
try is  generally  hard  and  uninteresting,  as  beseems  a  region 
that  supplies  France  with  iron,  charcoal,  marble,  grindstones, 
glass,  building  stone,  and  a  thousand  articles  of  cutlery  and 
iron  ware.  The  chi,teau  had  only  its  great  antiquity,  its 
romantic  aspect,  and  its  great  size  to  recommend  it;  an 
extensive  edifice,  with  a  chapel  and  all  the  other  appurte- 
nances of  a  feudal  residence  of  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  but 
with  scarcely  a  window  or  door  capable  of  keeping  out  wind 
and  rain.  A  few  thousand  francs,  expended  by  a  man  who 
knows  how  to  get  a  franc's  worth  for  every  franc,  will  make 
some  corners  of  an  old  chateau  inhabitable,  and  this  was  done 
at  Cirey.  He  began  the  work  in  August,  1734,  while  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  was  still  at  court  ameliorating  ministers. 

In  the  absence  of  the  lord  and  lady  of  the  chateau  he  was 
very  much  the  grand  seigneur  ;  at  least,  he  played  the  part 
with  grace  and  effect.  "  I  take  the  liberty  of  sending  you 
a  boar's  head,"  he  writes  to  a  neighbor,  the  Countess  de 
la  Neuville,  "  This  monsieur  has  just  been  assassinated,  in 
order  to  give  me  an  opportunity  of  paying  my  court  to  you." 
I  sent  for  a  buck,  but  none  could  be  found.  This  boar  was 
destined  to  give  you  his  head.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  think 
very  little  of  the  head  of  a  wild  pig,  and  I  believe  it  is  only 
eaten  from  vanity.  If  I  had  taken  nothing  but  a  lark,  I 
should  have  offered  it  to  you,  all  the  same."  In  return,  the 
countess  sends  the  lord  ^:)ro  tern,  a  basket  of  peaches.  He  is 
occupied,  meanwhile,  with  leads  for  the  roof,  with  fire-places, 
carriage-ways,  chimney-pots,  surrounded  by  masons  and  heaps 
of  old  plaster.  New  workmen  arrive.  "  I  write  their  names 
every  day  in  a  large  account-book  ;  I  cannot  leave  the  chateau 
until  some  one  comes  to  relieve  me."  But  he  could  write 
verses  for  the  ladies  and  retouch  his  opera  of  "  Samson"  for 
Rameau  in  the  midst  of  chaos.  If  the  warning  comes  from 
Paris,  he  can  skip  over  the  border.  He  did  so  in  October, 
and  went  as  far  as  Brussels,  returning,  after  a  few  weeks' 
absence,  to  welcome  Madame  du  Chatelet,  who  was  coming  to 
join  him. 

Chaos  itself  was  now  confused.     On  a  certain  day  in  Novem- 
ber arrived  from  Paris  "  two  hundred  packages,"  harbingers 


MADAME   DU   CH^TELET  AND   HER   ChItEAU.  309 

of  the  lady  of  the  chateau.  Next  came  a  letter  from  her, 
saying  that  she  had  been  detained,  and  could  not  come  as 
soon  as  she  had  appointed.  Lastly,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  litter,  madame  herself  arrived,  "in  a 
kind  of  two-horse  cart,"  bruised,  shaken,  tired,  but  very  well. 
She  found  that,  if  much  had  been  done,  more  remained  to  do  : 
beds  without  curtains,  rooms  without  windows,  closets  full  of 
old  china,  but  no  easy-chairs,  beautiful  vehicles  and  no  horses 
to  draw  them,  an  abundance  of  ancient  tapestry  hanging  in 
tatters.  She  entered  upon  the  work  of  restoration  with  zest, 
and  speedily  undid  much  that  her  poet  had  done.  "  She  has 
windows  put,"  he  wrote  to  Madame  de  la  Neuville,  "  where  I 
had  made  doors.  She  changes  stairs  into  chimneys,  and 
chimneys  into  stairs.  She  has  lindens  planted  where  I  had 
proposed  elms,  and  if  I  had  laid  out  a  vegetable  garden  she 
turns  it  into  flower  beds.  Besides  this,  she  does  fairy  work 
in  her  house.  She  converts  rags  into  tapestry,  and  finds  the 
secret  of  furnishing  Cirey  out  of  nothing."  Several  weeks 
were  spent  in  work  of  this  kind,  and  gradually  portions  of 
"  the  most  dilapidated  chateau  on  earth,"  as  Voltaire  called  it, 
became  inhabitable  and  presentable.  He  had  bought  a  valua- 
ble picture,  now  and  then,  of  late  years  as  opportunity  offered, 
and  thus  he  was  able  to  hang  a  considerable  number  of  fine 
works  upon  these  ancient  walls.  Horses  were  procured  ;  and 
soon  madame  had,  among  other  carriages,  "  a  little  phaeton  as 
light  as  a  feather,  drawn  by  horses  as  big  as  elephants." 

At  Christmas  she  was  at  Paris  again,  attending  "  the  mid- 
night mass  "  with  Maupertuis,  and  taking  him  home  with  her 
to  supper,  after  that  festivity.  She  was  there  to  be  near 
Madame  de  Richelieu  in  her  confinement,  and  to  effect  the 
canceling  of  the  lettre  de  cachet.  She  passed  the  first  weeks 
of  1735  between  the  bedside  of  the  duchess  and  the  cabinet 
of  M.  de  Maurepas,  with  happy  results  both  to  the  lady  and 
the  poet.  March  2,  1735,  the  lieutenant  of  police  wrote  to 
"Voltaire  a  letter  worthy  of  a  "  paternal  government  "  :  — 

"  His  Eminence  and  Monsieur  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals  have 
charged  me,  monsieur,  to  inform  you  that  you  are  at  liberty 
to  return  to  Paris  whenever  you  think  proper.  This  permis- 
sion is  given  on  condition  that  you  will  occupy  yourself  here 
with  objects  which  shall  afford  no  grounds  of  complaint  against 


310  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

you,  like  those  of  the  past.  The  more  talent  you  have,  mon- 
sieur, the  more  you  ought  to  feel  that  you  have  enemies  and 
jealous  competitors.  Shut  their  mouths,  then,  forever,  by  a 
course  of  conduct  worthy  of  a  wise  man  and  of  a  man  who 
has  now  reached  a  certain  age." 

This  epistle,  which  found  him  still  immersed  in  the  details 
of  reparation,  had  no  effect  upon  the  scheme  of  retirement. 
He  showed  himself  in  Paris  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  spring,  to 
notify  friends  and  enemies  that  he  was  free  to  come  and  go 
like  other  men.  He  knew  that  Paris  could  not  then  be  a  safe 
place  of  I'esidence  for  him  ;  and  even  during  this  short  stay 
rumors  reached  him  of  the  currency  of  portions  of  his  "  Pu- 
celle.'"  There  were  lines  in  that  burlesque  which,  under  De 
Fleury  and  Maurepas,  might  have  doomed  the  author  to  one 
of  the  wet  dungeons  of  the  Bastille.  He  withdrew  in  haste, 
and,  after  spending  some  time  in  Lorraine,  returned  to  Cirey 
to  continue  the  battle  with  chaos.  He  did  not  enjoy  it.  "  I 
am  worried  with  details.  So  afraid  am  I  of  making  bad  bar- 
gains, and  so  tired  of  urging  on  the  workmen,  that  I  have 
asked  for  a  man  to  help  me."  But  no  day  passed  without  its 
verse.  In  December,  1734,  he  could  tell  Cideville  that,  during 
the  eight  months  of  his  "  retreat,"  he  had  written  "  three  or 
four  thousand  verses,"  and  he  sent  to  D'Argental  a  portion  of 
the  same  in  the  form  of  a  new  traged}-,  "  Alzire." 

Cirey  was  his  home  henceforth  as  long  as  Madame  du  Cha- 
telet  lived.  He  often  fled  from  it  at  the  rumor  of  danger.  He 
sometimes  remained  for  considerable  periods  at  Paris  and  else- 
where ;  but  Cirey  was  his  home,  to  which  he  removed  the 
works  of  art  and  curiosity,  the  books  and  memoranda,  that  he 
had  accumulated  in  a  life  of  forty  years.  He  lived  there,  as  far 
as  visitors  could  usually  discern,  very  much  as  an  uncle  might, 
—  one  of  those  good  uncles  who,  having  missed  a  happiness  of 
their  own,  share  by  enhancing  that  of  a  brother  or  a  sister;  an 
uncle  who  has  plenty  of  money,  and  gives  watches  to  his  neph- 
ews and  nieces  on  their  sixteenth  birthday,  and  suddenly  ap- 
pears on  the  lawn,  of  a  May  morning,  leading  rapture  in  the 
guise  of  a  pony.  In  the  absence  of  visitors,  the  marquise 
and  himself  spent  laborious  days  in  study  and  composition, 
each  remaining  alone  for  seven  and  eight  hours  of  the  day,  and 
meeting  in  the  evening  at  the  French  sacrament  of  supper. 


MADAME  DU  CHATELET  AND  HER  CHATEAU.     811 

When  a  poet  settled  in  the  country,  he  was  expected  to  dig- 
nify his  abode  with  inscriptions,  and  he  usually  fulfilled  this 
expectation.  Voltaire's  first  attempt — a  Latin  couplet,  as 
written  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  —  contained  errors  that  have 
since  given  much  consolation  to  clerical  critics.  It  was  de- 
signed for  a  small  addition  to  the  chateau  which  he  had  caused 
to  be  built,  and  which  in  this  couplet  he  called  casa^  making 
both  its  syllables  long.  In  the  ancient  republic  of  letters  this 
was  a  capital  offense.  If  Mr.  Grote  had  pushed  on  to  Cirey, 
he  might  have  discovered  that,  before  having  the  inscription 
engraved,  Voltaire  corrected  the  error.  It  reads  thus  upon 
one  of  the  doors  of  the  old  chateau  :  — 

"  H«c  ingens  incoepta  domus  fit  parva ;  sed  sevum 
Degitur  hie  felix  et  bene,  magna  sat  est."i 

Two  other  inscriptions,  one  in  Latin  and  one  in  French, 
were  until  recently  to  be  seen  upon  the  door  of  a  gallery  which 
he  built  for  philosophical  apparatus.  The  Latin  inscription, 
witty  in  itself,  is  also  amusing  for  its  observance  of  the  estab- 
lished decorum  of  the  chateau.  The  masculine  gender  is  as- 
signed to  the  "  lover  of  virtue,  the  despiser  of  the  vulgar  and 
the  court,  the  cultivator  of  friendship,  who,  withdrawn  to  his 
estate,  was  hiding  a  poet."  The  world  was  invited  to  take 
note  that  it  was  a  marquis  who  hid  the  poet,  not  Madame  la 
Marquise. 

"  Hic  virtutis  amans,  vulgi  contemptor  et  aulse, 
Cultor  amicitice  vates  liitet  abditus  aaro." 

A  French  inscription  was  placed  under  this,  and  may  have 
been  engraved  there  a  little  later :  — 

"Asile  des  beaux-arts,  solitude  ou  mon  coeur 
Est  toujours  occiipe  daus  une  paix  profonde, 
C'est  vous  qui  donnez  le  bonheur 
Que  promettiait  en  vain  le  monde."^ 

He  had  an  unequaled  facility  in  the  trifles  of  poetry,  many 
of  which  are  so  happy  that,  even  in  a  prose  translation,  they 
are  not  devoid  of  interest.  During  the  first  year  or  two  of 
his  settlement  at  Cirey  he  composed  a  great  number  of  inscrip- 

^  1  This  house,  begun  on  a  vast  scale,  becomes  small ;  but  time  passes  here  hap- 
pily and  well ;  it  is  large  enough. 

2  Asylum  of  the  fine  arts,  solitude  in  which  my  heart  is  always  occupied  in 
profound  peace,  it  is  you  that  give  the  happiness  which  the  world  would  promise 
in  vain.  f 


312  LIFE  OF   VOLTAIRE. 

tions,  impromptus,  epigrams,  snatches  of  verse  in  letters,  com- 
pliments to  ladies  at  table,  satirical  couplets,  and  rhymed  invi- 
tations. I  select  two  or  three,  not  usually  accessible  except 
to  inhabitants  of  cities.     He  winds  up  an  invitation  thus  :  — 

"  Certain  vin  frais,  dont  la  mousse  pressee 
De  la  bouteille  avec  force  elancee, 
Avec  eclat  fait  Yoler  le  bouchon  ; 
II  part,  on  rit,  il  frappe  le  plafond. 
De  ce  nectar  I'e'cume  petillante 
De  nos  Fran9ais  est  I'image  briilante."  ^ 

The  following  is  upon  the  chateau  of  Cirey :  — 

"  Un  voyageur,  qui  ne  mentit  jamais, 
Passe  a  Cirei,  I'admire,  le  contemple  ; 
II  croit  d'abord  que  ce  n'est  qu'un  palais ; 
Mais  il  voit  Emilie.    Ah  !  dit-il,  c'est  un  temple."  ^ 

This  was  addressed  to  Madame  du  Chatelet  upon  his  seeing 
her  deep  in  algebra  :  — 

"  Sans  doute  voiis  serez  celebre 
Par  les  grands  calculs  de  I'algebre 
Oil  votre  esprit  est  absorbe  : 
J'oserais  m'y  livrer  moi-merae : 
Mais,  helas !  A  +  D  —  B 
N'est  pas  ==  a  je  vous  aime."  ^ 

One  addressed  to  an  officer  who  had  some  of  his  hair  cut  off 
by  a  cannon  ball  at  a  siege,  and  was  not  promoted  for  it,  was 
much  celebrated  at  the  time  :  — 

"  Des  boulets  allemands  la  pesante  tempete 

A,  dit-on,  coupe'  vos  cheveux  : 

Les  gens  d'esprit  sont  fort  heureux 

Qu'elle  ait  respecte  votre  tete. 
On  pretend  que  Cesar,  le  phenix  des  guerriers, 
N'ayant  plus  de  cheveux,  se  coiffa  de  lauriers  : 
Cet  ornement  est  beau,  mais  n'est  plus  de  ce  monde. 

Si  Cesar  nous  etait  rendu, 
Et  qu'en  servant  Louis  il  eut  ete  tondu, 
II  n'y  gagnerait  rien  qu'une  perruque  blonde."  * 

1  A  certain  cool  wine,  the  confined  froth  of  which  shot  from  the  bottle  with 
force,  makes  the  cork  fly ;  it  starts,  we  laugh,  it  hits  the  ceiling.  The  sparkling 
foam  of  this  nectar  is  the  brilliant  image  of  our  Frenchmen. 

2  A  traveler,  who  never  lies,  passes  by  Cirey,  admires  it,  contemplates  it.  At 
first  he  believes  it  is  only  a  palace ;  but  he  sees  Emilie.  "  Ah,"  he  says,  "  it  is  a 
temple." 

8  Doubtless  you  will  become  famous  through  the  grand  calculations  of  algebra 
in  which  your  mind  is  absorbed.  I  should  dare  to  devote  myself  to  them ;  but, 
alas  !  A  plus  D  minus  B  is  not  equal  to  /  love  you. 

*  The  weighty  tempest  of  German  bullets  has,  they  say,  cut  your  hair.  Men 
of  letters  are  very  glad  it  respected  your  head.     It  is  said  that  Caesar,  the  phoenix 


MADAME   DU  CIiItELET   AND   HER   ChItEAU.  313 

It  were  easy  to  fill  ten  pages  of  this  volume  from  the  light 
and  sparkling  verses  of  this  period,  if  not  from  those  addressed 
to  Madame  du  Chatelet  alone.  I  yield  to  the  temptation  of 
copying  one  more,  upon  Idleness,  which  was  written  to  rouse 
the  idle  Linant  to  exertion,  but  written  in  vain :  — 

"  Connaissez  mieux  I'oisivete  : 

EUe  est  ou  folie  ou  sagesse ; 

Elle  est  vertu  dans  la  richcsse, 

Et  vice  dans  la  pauvrete. 
On  peut  jouir  en  paix,  dans  I'hiver  de  sa  yie, 
De  ces  fruits  qu'au  printemps  sema  notre  Industrie  : 
Courtisans  de  la  gloire,  e'crivains  ou  guerriers, 
Le  sommeil  est  permis,  mais  c'est  sur  des  lauriers."  i 

of  warriors,  having  lost  his  hair,  covered  his  head  with  laurels.  That  ornament 
is  beautiful,  but  no  longer  in  fashion.  If  Caasar  were  restored  to  us,  and  if,  while 
serving  Louis,  he  had  been  shorn,  he  would  gain  nothing  by  it  but  a  blonde 
peruke. 

1  Understand  idleness  better.  It  is  either  folly  or  wisdom;  it  is  virtue  in 
wealth  and  vice  in  poverty.  In  the  winter  of  our  life,  we  can  enjoy  in  peace  the 
fruits  which  in  its  spring  our  industry  planted.  Courtiers  of  glory,  writers  or 
warriors,  slumber  is  permitted  you,  but  only  upon  laurels. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

MAN  OF  BUSINESS. 

To  almost  any  man  of  letters  it  would  have  been  a  disad- 
vantage to  live  a  hundred  and  forty  miles  from  the  capital. 
With  such  roads  and  vehicles  as  they  had  then  in  France,  it 
was  usually  a  journey  of  three  or  four  days  from  Cirey  to 
Paris,  and  might  be  one  of  five  or  six.  The  chateau  was  lit- 
erally "  twelve  miles  from  a  lemon  ;  "  but  a  coach  from  Paris 
appears  to  have  passed  near  it  two  or  three  times  a  week,  and 
there  were  villages  four  or  five  miles  distant.  Chaumont  and 
Joinville,  either  of  which  might  have  sometimes  furnished  a 
lemon,  were  from  twelve  to  sixteen  miles  away.  Another  dif- 
ficulty was  that  all  letters  intrusted  to  the  mail  were  liable  to 
be  opened,  and  the  letters  of  Voltaire  were  sure  to  be.  He 
was  more  than  an  author:  he  was  importer,  merchant,  con- 
tractor, speculator,  capitalist,  money-lender  ;  and  he  was  now 
buried  alive  in  the  depths  of  Champagne,  reputed  to  be  the 
most  provincial  province  of  France  !  "  Ninety -nine  sheep  and 
one  Champagne  man  make  a  hundred  beasts,"  says  the  old 
French  proverb. 

To  his  other  labors  were  to  be  added  those  of  a  student  and 
experimenter  in  science,  a  fashion  then  in  Europe,  and  he 
cultivated  this  new  field  with  his  own  ardor  and  tenacity. 
Every  week  he  wanted  something  from  Paris  ;  every  day  some 
interest  of  his  required  intelligent  attention.  The  literary 
news  was  necessary  to  him.  Frequently  he  needed  informa- 
tion from  brother  chemists  and  philosophers  upon  some  point 
not  yet  elucidated  in  books.  Often  he  wanted  books  hard  to 
find,  materials  little  known,  apparatus  not  kept  for  sale.  All 
this  business  he  managed  with  that  ease,  tact,  and  success 
which  usually  marked  his  direction  of  mundane  things. 

Among  his  acquaintances  at  the  capital  there  was  a  certain 
Abbd  Moussinot,  a  kind  of  clerical  notary,  who  conducted  the 


MAN  OF  BUSINESS.  315 

business  affairs  of  his  chapter,  who  knew  how  to  "place"  and 
how  to  collect  money,  and  who  speculated  a  little  on  his  own 
account  in  pictures  and  rare  objects.  For  eight  years  or  more 
Voltaire  had  had  dealings  with  him,  had  bought  pictures  of 
him,  had  employed  him  in  transactions  and  negotiations,  and 
had  found  him  intelligent,  prompt,  faithful,  secret.  It  was 
through  this  shrewd,  obliging,  and  silent  abb^  that  he  kept 
open  lines  of  communication  with  his  base  of  supplies  dur- 
ing the  first  years  of  his  residence  at  Cirey.  There  is  nothing 
in  the  vast  range  of  his  correspondence  more  characteristic  than 
his  familiar  letters  to  the  Abbe  Moussinot,  of  which  we  possess 
about  one  hundred  and  fifty.  Before  entering  upon  his  intel- 
lectual life  in  Champagne,  his  most  brilliant,  fertile,  and  effect- 
ive period,  I  will  seize  the  opportunity  of  presenting  him  to 
the  reader  as  man  of  business.  The  most  agreeable  way  of 
doing  this  will  be  simply  to  translate  a  few  of  these  letters, 
and  leave  the  reader  to  make  his  own  comments  and  deduc- 
tions. It  is  only  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  that,  while  he  was 
writing  these  letters  and  managing  an  estate  of  sixty  thou- 
sand francs  a  year,  he  was  the  most  diligent  and  absorbed  lit- 
erary man  in  Europe,  the  dramatist  of  his  age,  the  most  pro- 
ductive of  living  authors,  who  was  making  wide  and  peculiar 
researches  in  history,  ancient  and  modern,  and  was  full  of  the 
new  zeal  for  scientific  experiment.  He  was  also  a  correspond- 
ent punctual  and  profuse;  and  when  a  visitor  arrived  at  the 
chateau  he  could  appear  wholly  the  man  of  pleasure,  and  ar- 
range a  series  of  entertainments  that  made  life  pass  like  a 
dream  of  festivity. 

LETTERS    FROM    VOLTAIRE    TO    THE    ABBiE    MOUSSINOT. 

[March  21,  1736.]  "  My  dear  Abbe,  —  I  love  your  strong-box  a 
thousand  times  better  than  that  of  a  notary ;  there  is  no  one  in  the 
world  whom  I  trust  as  I  do  you ;  you  are  as  intehigent  as  you  are 
virtuous.  You  were  made  to  be  the  soHcitor-general  of  the  order  of 
the  Jansenists,  for  you  know  that  they  call  their  union  the  Order  ;  it 
is  their  cant;  every  community,  every  society,  has  its  cant.  Consider, 
then,  if  you  are  willing  to  take  charge  of  the  funds  of  a  man  who  is 
not  devout,  and  to  do  from  friendship  for  that  undevout  man  what 
you  do  for  your  chapter  as  a  duty.  You  will  be  able  in  this  way  to 
make  some  good  bargains  in  buying  pictures ;  yon  will  borrow  from 
me  some  of  the  money  in  your  strong-box.     My  affairs,  as  you  know, 


316  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

are  very  easy  and  very  simple  ;  you  will  be  my  superintendent  wher- 
ever I  may  be  myself;  you  will  speak  for  me,  and  in  your  own  name, 
to  the  Villars,  to  the  Richelieus,  to  the  D'Estaings,  to  the  Guises,  to 
the  Guebriants,  to  the  D'Auneuils,  to  the  Lezeaux,  and  to  other  illus- 
trious debtors  of  your  friend.  When  a  man  speaks  for  his  friend  he 
asks  justice ;  when  it  is  I  who  solicit  that  justice,  I  have  the  air  of 
asking  a  favor,  and  it  is  this  that  I  wish  to  avoid.  This  is  not  all : 
you  will  act  as  my  plenipotentiary,  whether  for  my  pensions  payable 
by  M.  Paris-Duverney,  by  INI.  Tannevot,  first  clerk  of  the  finances, 
or  for  the  interest  due  me  from  the  H6tel-de-Ville,  from  Arouet,  my 
brother,  as  well  as  for  the  bonds  and  money  which  I  have  at  differ- 
ent notaries.  You  will  have,  my  dear  abbe,  carte-hlanche  for  all  that 
which  concerns  me,  and  everything  will  be  conducted  in  the  greatest 
secrecy.  Write  me  word  if  this  charge  is  agreeable  to  you.  Mean- 
while, I  pray  you  to  send  your  frotteur  to  find  a  young  man  named 
Baculard  d' Arnaud :  ^  he  is  a  student  in  philosophy  at  the  College 
of  Harcourt ;  he  lives  in  the  Rue  Mouffetard.  Give  him,  I  beg  you, 
this  little  manuscript  [the  "Epistle  upon  Calumny"],  and  make  him 
from  me  a  little  present  of  twelve  francs.  I  entreat  you  not  to  neg- 
lect this  small  favor  which  I  ask  you ;  this  manuscript  will  be  sold 
for  his  advantage.  I  embrace  you  with  all  my  heart ;  love  me  al- 
ways, and,  especially,  let  us  bind  the  bonds  of  our  friendship  closer 
by  mutual  confidence  and  reciprocal  services." 

[May  22,  1736.]  "  To  punish  you,  my  dear  friend,  for  not  having 
sent  to  find  the  young  Baculard  d' Arnaud,  student  in  philosophy  at 
the  College  of  Harcourt,  and  living  with  M.  Delacroix,  Rue  Mouffe- 
tard, —  to  punish  you,  I  say,  for  not  having  given  him  the  '  Epistle 
upon  Calumny '  and  twelve  francs,  I  condemn  you  to  give  him  a  louis 
d'or,  and  to  exhort  him  from  me  to  learn  to  write,  which  will  con- 
tribute to  his  fortune.     This  is  a  little  work  of  charity  which,  whether 

Christian  or  mundane,  must  not  be  neglected I  expect  news 

from  you  with  impatience,  and  I  embrace  you  with  all  my  heart.  I 
write  to  this  young  D' Arnaud.  Instead  of  twenty-four  francs,  give 
him  thirty  livres  when  he  comes  to  see  you.  I  am  going  to  seal  my 
letter  quick  for  fear  that  I  augment  the  sum.  Received  thirty  livres. 
Signed,  Bacidard  d" Arnaud."  ^ 

[September,  1736.]  "  Thirty-five  thousand  francs  for  tapestries  of 
the  '  Henriade  ' !  That  is  much,  my  dear  treasurer.  It  would  be 
necessary,  before  all,  to  know  how  much  the  tapestry  of  Don  Quixote 
sold  for  ;  it  would  be  necessary,  especially  before  commencing,  that 
M.  de  Richelieu  should  pay  me  my  fifty  thousand  francs.     Let  us  sus- 

1  Voltaire's  literary  correspondent  at  Paris. 

2  Lettres  de  Voltaire  a  I'Abbe  JMoussinot.    Paris,  1875,  page  6. 


IMAN  OF  BUSINESS.  317 

pend,  then,  every  project  of  tapestry,  and  let  M.  Oudri  do  nothing 
without  more  ample  information.  Buy  for  me,  my  dear  abbe,  a  little 
table  which  may  serve  at  once  as  screen  and  writing-desk,  and  send  it 
in  my  name  to  the  house  of  Madame  de  Winterfield,^  Rue  Platriere. 
Still  another  pleasure.  There  is  a  Chevalier  de  Mouhi,  who  lives  at 
the  Hotel  Dauphin,  Rue  des  Orties ;  this  chevalier  wishes  to  borrow 
of  me  a  hundred  pistoles,  and  I  am  very  willing  to  lend  them  to  him. 
Whether  he  comes  to  your  house,  or  whether  you  go  to  his,  I  pray 
you  to  say  to  him  that  I  take  pleasure  in  obliging  literary  men  when  I 
can,  but  that  I  am  actually  very  much  embarrassed  in  my  affairs ;  that 
nevertheless  you  will  do  all  you  can  to  find  this  money,  and  that  you 
hope  the  reimbursement  will  be  secured  in  such  a  way  that  there  will 
be  nothing  to  risk  ;  after  which  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  inform 
me  who  this  chevalier  is,  as  well  as  the  result  of  these  preliminaries. 
Eifrhteen  francs  to  the  little  D'Arnaud.  Tell  him  I  am  sick  and  can- 
not  write.  Pardon  all  these  trifles.  I  am  a  very  tedious  dabbler,  but 
I  love  you  with  all  my  heart."     , 

[July  30,  1736.]  "The  little  table  with  a  screen,  which  I  asked 
you  to  buy  for  Madame  de  Winterfield,  Rue  Platriere,  near  Saint- 
Jacques,  is  a  trifle.  It  must  be  very  simple  and  a  very  good  bar- 
gain." 

[Summer,  1736.]  "  Oudri,  my  dear  abbe,  appears  to  me  expen- 
sive ;  but  if  he  makes  two  sets  of  hangings,  can  we  not  have  them  a 
little  cheaper  ?  I  might  be  able  even  to  have  three  of  them  made. 
If  M.  de  Richelieu  pays  me,  it  will  be  well  for  me  to  invest  my  money 
in  that  way.  The  countenance  of  Henry  IV.  and  that  of  Gabrielle 
d'Estrees  in  tapestry  will  succeed  very  well.  Good  Frenchmen  will 
wish  to  have  some  Gabrielles  and  Henrys,  especially  if  the  good 
Frenchmen  are  rich.  "VVe  are  not  very  rich  ourselves,  just  now ;  but 
the  holy  time  of  Christmas  will  give  us,  I  hope,  some  consolation. 
Cannot  Chevalier  come  to  Cirey  to  execute  under  my  own  eyes  de- 
signs from  the  '  Henriade '  ?  Does  he  know  enough  of  his  art  for 
that  ?  They  speak  well  of  him,  but  he  has  not  yet  sufficient  reputa- 
tion to  be  unteachable.  It  is  said  there  is  at  Paris  a  man  who  draws 
portraits  to  be  worn  in  rings  in  a  perfect  manner.  I  have  seen  a  face 
of  Louis  XV.  of  his  doing,  which  was  an  excellent  likeness.  Have 
the  goodness,  my  dear  abbe,  to  disinter  this  man.  You  will  find  it 
impertinent  that  the  same  hand  should  paint  the  king  and  poor  me; 
but  friendship  wishes  it,  and  I  obey  friendship.^     The  Chevalier  de 

1  This  was  Oliinpe  Duiioycr,  the  young  lady  with  whom  Voltaire  was  in  love 
during  his  first  residence  in  Holland,  in  1713. 

2  The  artist  in  question  was  Barrier,  an  engraver  of  precious  stones,  who  made 
a  ring  portrait  of  Voltaire  for  Madame  du  Chatelet  soon/'^ter  the  date  of  this 
letter. 


318  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Mouhi,  then,  will  send  twice  a  week  to  Cirey  the  gossip  of  Paris.  En- 
join it  upon  him  to  be  infinitely  secret ;  give  him  a  hundred  crowns, 
and  promise  him  a  payment  once  a  month,  or  every  three  months,  as 
he  prefers.  I  treat  you,  my  dear  friend,  as  I  beg  you  will  treat  me. 
I  should  be  glad  to  be  so  happy  as  to  receive  some  orders  from  you." 

[October  27,  1736.]  "  I  could  wish,  my  dear  and  faithful  treasurer, 
to  have,  under  the  greatest  secrecy,  some  ready  money  deposited  with 
a  discreet  and  faithful  notary,  which  he  could  place  at  interest  for  a 
time,  and  which,  if  necessary,  I  could  get  back  without  delay.  The 
sum  would  be  fifty  thousand  francs,  and  perhaps  more.  Are  you  not 
acquainted  with  a  notary  in  whom  you  could  confide  ?  The  whole 
would  be  in  your  name.  I  am  very  much  discontented  with  M.  Fer- 
ret ;  he  has  two  excellent  qualities  for  a  public  man,  he  is  brutal  and 

indiscreet Have  the  goodness  to  give  another  louis  d'or  to 

D'Arnaud.  Tell  him  then  to  have  himself  called  simply  D'Arnaud ; 
that  is  a  fine  Jansenist  name  ;  Baculard  is  ridiculous." 

[February,  1737.]  "  I  find  myself,  my  dear  treasurer,  in  the  situa- 
tion of  always  having  before  me  a  large  sum  of  money  to  dispose 
of.  Your  letters  will  be  henceforth  addressed  to  Madame  d'Azilli,  at 
Cirey.  Put  nothing  in  them  too  clearly  which  might  reveal  that  it  is 
I  to  whom  you  write.  I  find  my  obscurity  convenient.  I  wish  to 
have  no  correspondence  with  any  one  ;  I  pretend  to  be  ignored  of  all 
the  world  except  you,  whom  I  love  with  all  my  heart,  and  whom  I 
beg  very  earnestly  to  find  me  a  literary  correspondent  who  will  give 
me  news  with  exactness,  and  whom  you  will  leave  in  ignorance  of  my 
retreat." 

[March  18,  1737.]  "  The  principal  of  the  debt  of  M.  de  Riche- 
lieu is  46,417  livres  ;  date.  May  5,  1735."^ 

[March,  1737.]  "  I  am  very  glad,  my  dear  correspondent,  that 
M.  Berger  thinks  I  am  in  England.  I  am  there  for  all  the  world  ex- 
cept you.  Send,  I  pray  you,  a  hundred  louis  d'or  to  M.  the  Marquis 
du  Chatelet,  who  will  bring  them  to  me.  Now,  my  dear  abbe,  are 
you  willing  that  I  should  speak  to  you  frankly  ?  It  is  necessary  for 
you  to  do  me  the  favor  of  accepting  every  year  a  little  honorarium, 
merely  as  a  mark  of  my  friendship.  Let  us  not  beat  about  the  bush. 
You  have  a  small  salary  from  your  canons  ;  treat  me  as  a  chapter ; 
take  twice  as  much  every  year  from  your  friend,  the  poet-philosopher, 
as  your  cloister  gives  you ;  this  without  prejudice  to  the  gratitude 
which  I  shall  always  cherish.     Arrange  this  and  love  me." 

[April,  1737.]  "I  repeat  to  you,  my  tender  friend,  my  urgent 
request  not  to  speak  of  my  affairs  to  any  one,  and  especially  to  say 
that  I  am  in  England.  I  have  the  very  strongest  reasons  for  that. 
1  Lettres  de  Voltaire  a  I'Abbd  Moussinot.     Paris,  1775,  page  26. 


MAN  OF  BUSINESS.  319 

In  the  present  critical  situation  of  my  affairs,  it  would  be  very  im- 
prudent for  me  to  embark  in  the  commerce  with  Piiiega  a  large  sum, 
which  would  be  too  long  in  yielding  returns.  Therefore,  let  us  not 
invest  in  that  commerce  more  than  four  or  five  thousand  francs  for 
our  amusement ;  a  like  sum  in  pictures,  which  will  amuse  you  still 
more.  The  paper  of  the  farmers-general  brings  in  six  per  cent,  a 
year ;  it  is  the  surest  investment  of  money.  Amuse  yourself  again 
in  that.  Buy  some  bonds.  That  merchandise  will  fall  in  a  short 
time  ;  at  least,  I  think  so  ;  that  is  another  honest  recreation  for  a 
canon  ;  and  I  leave  to  your  intelligence  everything  that  relates  to 
those  amusements.  Besides,  let  us  put  into  the  hands  of  M.  Michel, 
whose  probity  and  fortune  you  know,  one  half  of  our  ready  money  at 
five  per  cent.,  and  not  more  ;  were  it  only  for  six  months,  that  would 
produce  something.  In  the  matter  of  interest  nothing  must  be  neg- 
lected, and  in  investing  our  money  we  must  always  conform  to  the 
law  of  the  prince.  Let  all  that,  like  my  other  affairs,  be  a  profound 
secret.  Still  eighteen  francs  to  D'Arnaud,  and  two  '  Henriades.' 
I  see  that  I  give  you  more  trouble  than  all  your  chapter,  but  I  shall 
not  be  so  ungrateful." 

[April  14,  1737.]  "  M.  the  Abbe  de  Breteuil  has  come  here.  He 
is  in  quest  of  some  engravings  for  his  rooms  ;  if  I  have  still  half  a 
dozen  pretty  enough,  you  will  do  me,  my  dear  friend,  the  favor  to 
send  them.  You  will  have  the  goodness  to  send  with  them  a  word 
or  two,  in  the  way  of  a  note,  to  the  effect  that,  having  recommended 
that  the  engravings  of  mine  which  are  left  should  be  presented  to  him, 
you  have  but  these,  and  he  is  requested  to  accept  them.  Besides  the 
two  thousand  four  hundred  francs  which  you  are  to  give  to  the  Mar- 
quis du  Chatelet,  it  is  necessary  to  give  him  fifty  livres.  It  is  nec- 
essary also,  my  dear  abbe,  to  find  a  man  who  will  give  us  at  Cirey 
twice  a  week  a  letter  of  news.  I  ask  a  thousand  pardons,  my  gener- 
ous correspondent,  for  the  tiresome  details  of  my  commissions,  but 
you  must  have  pity  upon  country  people,  by  whom  you  are  tenderly 
loved." 

[May,  1737.]  "You  are  going,  then,  to  Rouen,  my  dear  treasurer? 
See,  I  pray  you,  the  Marquis  de  Lezeau.  Speak  to  him  of  the  pov- 
erty of  our  cash-box.  I  am  confident  that  you  will  induce  him  to 
pay ;  you  have  the  gift  of  persuasion.  It  is,  my  dear  abbe,  of  abso- 
lute necessity  that  I  should  know  how  it  is  that  I  have  forgotten 
having  given  a  receipt  to  M.  the  President  d'Auneuil.  It  must  be 
some  one  else  who  has  given  this  receipt,  and  who  has  received  the 
money  for  me  ;  it  is  from  the  mouth  of  Demoulin  that  y  ni  can  know 
whether  this  money  has  been  received  or  not.  Mesnil,  the  notary, 
delivered  it;  Demoulin  ought  to  have  received  it.     This  man,  who 


320  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

robbed  me  of  twenty  thousand  francs,  and  who  is  an  ingrate,  could 
he  have  pilfered  also  that  half  year's  payment  ?  It  is  necessary  to 
address  ourselves  to  those  two  individuals  in  order  to  know  the  truth ; 
and  if  neither  of  them  remember  the  facts  it  will  be  well  that  M. 
d'Auneuil  should  be  informed  that  I  know  no  more  of  the  matter  than 
the}-.  In  matters  of  interest  and  money  we  cannot  be  too  careful 
and  exact ;  we  should  foresee  everything  and  guard  against  every- 
thing. M.  de  Richelieu  owes  only  for  one  year  ;  it  is  not  proper 
to  demand  that  year's  interest  at  a  time  when  he  is  paying  me 
forty-three  thousand  two  hundred  francs.  I  would  not  hinder  him, 
however,  from  giving  me  some  ready  money,  if  he  wishes  to  do  so ; 
but  I  shall  be  very  content  with  a  good  assignment,  as  well  for  the 
two  thousand  nine  hundred  livres  of  arrears  which  I  am  still  to  receive 
from  him  as  for  the  annuity  of  four  thousand  francs  which  he  pays 
me  every  year.  In  that  case  he  would  be  importuned  no  more,  and 
our  affairs  would  be  more  according  to  rule  and  easier  to  manage. 
You  can,  my  dear  abbe,  send  by  the  coach,  in  perfect  safety,  three 
hundred  louis  well  packed,  without  saying  what  they  are  and  without 
expense,  provided  the  box  be  well  and  duly  registered  as  containing 
valuables  ;  that  will  suffice.  Besides  these  three  hundred  louis,  I  must 
have  a  draft  for  two  thousand  four  hundred  francs ;  the  receiver- 
general  of  Champagne  will  give  you  this  draft  for  your  money.  Any 
banker  will  tell  you  the  name  and  residence  of  the  receiver-general. 
I  am  ashamed  of  all  the  trouble  I  give  you,  and  I  am  obliged  to  avow, 
my  dear  friend,  that  you  were  made  to  manage  greater  affairs  than  the 
treasury  of  a  chapter  of  Saint  Merri  and  the  revenue  of  a  philoso- 
pher who  embraces  you  with  all  his  heart.  In  this  world  one  is  rarely 
what  he  ought  to  be." 

[May,  1737.]  "The  man  who  has  the  secret  of  spinning  brass  is 
not  the  only  one ;  but  I  believe  that  only  a  little  of  it  can  be  spun, 
and  that  it  easily  breaks.  Sound  this  man  of  brass  ;  we  might  be 
able  to  have  him  here,  and  give  him  a  chamber,  a  laboratory,  his 
board,  and  a  salary  of  a  hundred  crowns.  It  would  be  in  his  power 
to  make  some  experiments,  and  to  try  and  make  steel,  which  as- 
suredly is  much  easier  than  to  make  gold.  If  he  has  the  misfortune 
to  seek  the  philosopher's  stone,  I  am  not  surprised  that  from  six  thou- 
sand francs  a  year  he  is  reduced  to  nothing.  A  philosopher  who  has 
six  thousand  francs  a  year  has  the  philosopher's  stone.  That  stone 
brings  us,  very  naturally,  to  speak  of  affairs  of  interest.  Here  is  the 
certificate  which  you  ask  for.  I  repeat  to  you  my  prayers  that  M. 
de  Guise,  INI.  de  Lezeau,  and  others  may  be  written  to  without  delay  ; 
that  you  see  M.  Paris-Duverney,  and  let  him  know  that  he  will 
give  me  great  pleasure  if  he  permits  me  to  enjoy  the  pension  from 


{ I 


■,{i 


MAN  OF   BUSINESS.  321 

the  queen  and  from  the  royal  treasury,  of  which  I  am  in  very  great 
need,  and  for  which  I  shall  be  much  obliged.  Be  willing  also,  my 
dear  abbe,  to  arrange,  in  some  amiable  way,  my  annuity,  my  capital 
overdue,  and  the  arrears,  with  the  steward  of  M.  de  Richelieu ;  the 
whole  without  betraying  an  unbecoming  distrust.  That  ought  to 
have  been  done  more  than  a  month  ago.  An  assurance  of  regular 
payment  would  spare  the  duke  disagreeable  details,  would  deliver 
his  steward  from  great  embarrassment,  would  spare  you,  my  dear 
friend,  many  useless  steps,  many  fatiguing  and  unfruitful  labors. 
We  shall  say  more  of  this  another  time,  for  I  am  afraid  of  forgetting 
to  ask  you  for  a  very  good  air-pump,  which  is  hard  to  find ;  a  good 
reflecting  telescope,  which  is  at  least  as  rare ;  the  volumes  of  pieces 
which  have  been  crowned  at  the  Academy.  Such  are  the  learned 
things  which  my  little  learned  mind  has  very  urgent  need  of.  I 
have,  my  dear  abbe,  neither  the  time  nor  the  strength  to  continue, 
nor  even  to  thank  you  for  the  chemist  whom  you  sent  me.  As  yet, 
I  have  scarcely  seen  him,  except  at  mass ;  he  loves  solitude ;  he 
ought  to  be  content.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  work  with  him  in  chem- 
ical matters  until  an  apartment  which  I  am  building  is  finished ;  till 
then,  we  must  each  of  us  study  apart,  and  you  must  love  me  always." 

[May,  1737.]  "  It  is  necessary,  my  dear  friend,  to  ask,  to  ask  again, 
to  press,  to  see,  to  importune,  and  not  jjersecute  my  debtors  for  my 
annuities  and  arrears.  A  letter  costs  nothing;  two  are  only  a  very 
trifling  embarrassment,  and  serve  the  purpose  that  a  debtor  cannot 
complain  if  I  am  obliged  to  avail  myself  of  legal  means  of  redress. 
After  two  letters  to  the  farmers  at  an  interval  of  a  mouth,  and  a  little 
word  of  excuse  to  the  masters,  it  will  be  necessary  to  issue  formal 
demands  to  the  farmers  of  the  lands  upon  which  my  annuities  are  se- 
cured. I  will  send  you  the  list  of  them.  For  the  rest  of  my  life  it 
will  be  with  the  farmers  that  I  shall  have  to  do.  That  will  be  a  much 
better  plan.  Pinga  says  everywhere  that  he  is  selling  my  effects,  and 
that  has  a  much  worse  effect  than  all  I  sell.  I  flatter  myself,  my  dear 
friend,  that  you  will  keep  much  better  the  secret  of  all  my  affairs. 
You  have,  God  be  thanked,  all  the  good  qualities." 

[May,  1737.]  "Great  thanks,  my  dear  abbe,  for  the  present  given 
to  La  Mare,  and  the  more  because  it  is  the  last  whicli  my  affairs  per- 
mit me  to  accord  him.  If  ever  he  comes  to  importune  you,  do  not  let 
him  take  up  your  time.  Reply  that  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  my 
business  ;  that  cuts  the  matter  short.  Ascertain  if  it  is  *rue  that  this 
little  gentleman,  whom  I  have  overwhelmed  with  benefits,  rails  also 
against  me.  Speak  to  Demoulin  gently.  He  ought  indeed  to  blush 
at  his  conduct  towards  me  ;  he  has  deprived  me  of  twenty  thousand 
francs,  and  wishes  to  dishonor  me.     In  losing  twenty  thousand  francs 

VOL.   I,  21 


822  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

I  need  not  acquire  an  enemy.  Another  request,  my  dear  ahh^.  A 
friend,  who  asks  of  me  an  inviolable  secrecy,  charges  me  to  ascertain 
what  is  the  subject  of  the  prize  essay  announced  this  year  by  the 
Academy  of  Sciences.  I  know  no  man  more  secret  than  you  :  it  will 
be  you,  then,  my  dear  friend,  who  will  render  us  this  service.  If  I 
were  to  write  to  some  member  of  the  Academy,  he  would  think,  per- 
haps, that  I  wished  to  compete  for  the  prize ;  that  would  suit  neither 
my  age  nor  my  defective  knowledge." 

[June,  1737.]  "Arm  yourself  with  courage,  my  dear  and  amiable 
agent,  for  to-day  I  am  going  to  be  exceedingly  troublesome.  Here  is 
a  learned  negotiation,  in  which  it  is  necessary,  if  you  please,  that  you 
succeed,  and  that  I  be  not  found  out.  A  visit  to,  M.  de  Fontenelle, 
and  a  long  explanation  upon  what  is  understood  by  the  propagation  of 
fire.  Disputants,  among  whom  I  sometimes  take  a  fancy  to  thrust 
myself,  discuss  the  question  whether  fire  has  or  has  not  weight.  M. 
Lemeri,  whose  '  Chemistry '  you  sent  me,  asserts  (chapter  v.)  that, 
after  having  calcined  twenty  pounds  of  lead,  he  found  it  increased  in 
weight  five  pounds  ;  he  does  not  say  whether  he  weighed  the  earthen 
vessel  in  which  the  calcination  was  made,  to  ascertain  if  any  carbon 
had  joined  itself  to  the  lead ;  he  supposes  simply,  or  rather  boldly, 
that  the  lead  has  absorbed  some  particles  of  fire,  which  have  augmented 
its  weight.  Five  pounds  of  fire !  Five  pounds  of  light !  That  is 
admirable,  and  so  admirable  that  I  do  not  believe  it.  Other  scientific 
men  have  made  experiments  with  a  view  to  ascertain  the  weight  of 
fire.  They  have  put  filings  of  copper  and  filings  of  tin  into  glass  re- 
torts hermetically  sealed  ;  they  have  calcined  these  filings,  and  they 
have  found  them  increased  in  weight :  an  ounce  of  copper  has  acquired 
forty-nine  grains,  and  an  ounce  of  tin  four  grains.  Antimony  calcined 
by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  by  means  of  the  burning  glass,  has  also  in- 
creased in  weight  in  the  hands  of  the  chemist,  Romberg.  I  wish  that 
all  those  statements  may  be  true  ;  I  wish  that  the  matter  in  which  the 
metals  were  held  during  calcination  may  not  have  contributed  to  in- 
crease the  weight  of  those  metals  ;  but  I  who  speak  to  you  have 
weighed  more  than  a  thousand  pounds  of  red-hot  iron,  and  I  have 
afterwards  weighed  it  cold.  I  have  not  found  a  grain  of  difference. 
Now  it  would  be  very  curious  that  twenty  pounds  of  lead,  calcined, 
should  gain  five  pounds  in  weight,  and  that  a  thousand  pounds  of  red- 
hot  iron  should  not  weigh  one  grain  the  heavier.  Such,  my  dear  abbe, 
are  the  difiiculties  which  for  a  month  past  have  wearied  the  head  of 
your  friend,  little  accustomed  to  physical  investigations,  and  rendered 
him  uncertain  in  chemistry,  just  as  other  difficulties  of  a  different  order 
render  him  shaky  upon  some  points  little  important  of  scholastic  the- 
ology.    In  every  science  we  seek  the  truth  in  good  faith,  and,  when 


31 


MAN  OF  BUSINESS.  323 

we  think  we  have  found  it,  we  are  often  embracing  only  an  error. 
Now  for  the  favor  which  I  ask  of  you.  Go  to  your  neighbor,  M. 
GeofFroy,  apothecary  to  the  Academy  of  Sciences  ;  get  into  conversa- 
tion with  him  by  means  of  half  a  pound  of  quinquina,  which  you  will 
buy  and  send  to  me.  Ask  him  respecting  the  experiments  of  Lemeri, 
of  Homberg,  and  mine.  You  are  a  very  skillful  negotiator  ;  you  will 
easily  find  out  what  M.  Geoffroy  thinks  of  all  that,  and  you  will  tell 
me  what  he  says,  —  the  whole  without  committing  me.  I  am,  as  you 
see,  my  dear  friend,  much  occupied  with  physical  matters ;  but  I  do 
not  forget  that  superfluity  which  they  name  the  necessary.-^  I  hope 
that  Hebert  will  not  delay  to  finish  it,  and  that  he  will  spare  nothing 
in  rendering  it  elegant  and  magnificent." 

[June  29,  1737.]  "  Are  you  willing,  my  dear  friend,  to  pay  a  visit, 
long  or  short  as  you  like,  to  M.  Boulduc,  a  learned  chemist  ?  I  am 
informed  that  he  has  made  some  experiments  which  tend  to  prove  that 
fire  does  not  augment  the  weight  of  bodies  !  The  point  is  to  have 
upon  that  subject  a  conversation  with  him.  There  is  also  a  M. 
Grosse,  who  lives  in  the  same  building.  He  is  also  a  chemist,  very 
intelligent  and  very  laborious.  I  pray  you  to  ask  both  of  these  gen- 
tlemen what  they  think  of  the  experiments  of  the  lead  calcined  by  or- 
dinary fire,  and  of  the  metals  calcined  by  the  rays  of  the  sun  concen- 
trated through  the  burning  glass.  They  will  feel  it  a  pleasure  to 
speak  to  you,  to  instruct  you,  and  you  will  send  me  a  statement  of 
their  philosophic  instructions.  This,  my  dear  correspondent,  is  a  com- 
mission much  more  amusing  than  to  arrange  a  composition  with  the 
creditors  of  the  Prince  de  Guise.  That  prince  has  always  concealed 
from  me  the  appointment  of  a  commission  for  the  liquidation  of  his 
debts.  A  life  annuity  ought  to  be  sacred ;  he  owes  me  three  years' 
income.  A  commission  established  by  the  king  is  not  established  for 
the  purpose  of  frustrating  the  creditors.  Life  annuities  ought  cer- 
tainly to  be  excepted  from  the  operation  of  the  laws  most  favorable 
to  debtors  of  dishonest  intentions.  Speak  of  this,  I  pray  you,  to  M. 
de  Machault ;  and  after  having  represented  to  him  my  right  and  the 
injury  which  I  suffer,  you  will  act  as  he  will  direct.  It  is  essential 
for  us  to  avail  ourselves  of  legal  methods,  and  it  is  proper  to  do  so 
with  all  the  consideration  possible.  Do  not  trust  the  positive  promise 
of  the  Prince  de  Guise.  The  positive  promises  of  princes  are  trifles, 
and  his  are  worse." 

[June  30,  1737.]     "Another   little  visit,  my  dear   friend,  to   M. 

Geoffroy.     Send  him  back,  by  means  of  some  ounces  of  quinquina,  or 

of  senna,  or  of  manna,  or  of  anything  else  which  you  may  be  pleased 

to  buy  for  your  own  health  or  for  mine,  —  send  him  back,  I  tell  you,  to 

^  An  allusion  to  Voltaire's  poem,  the  Mondain,  verse  22. 


324 


LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 


the  chapter  of  lead  and  the  regukis  of  antimony  increased  in  weight 
by  calcination.  He  has  told  yon,  and  it  is  true,  that  those  substances 
lose  the  increase  of  weight  after  becoming  cold  again ;  but  that  is  not 
enough.  It  is  necessary  to  know  if  that  weight  is  lost  when  the  cal- 
cined body  becomes  simply  cold  again,  or  if  it  is  lost  when  the  calcined 
body  has  been  afterwards  melted.  Lemeri,  who  reports  that  twenty 
pounds  of  calcined  lead  weigh  twenty-five  pounds,  adds  that  this  lead 
remelted  only  weighs  nineteen  pounds.  MM.  Duclos  and  Romberg 
report  that  the  regulus  of  iron  and  that  of  antimony  calcined  by  the 
burning  glass  increased  in  weight ;  but  that  upon  being  melted  after- 
wards by  the  same  glass  they  lost  both  the  weight  which  they  had  ac- 
quired and  a  little  of  their  own.  It  is  then  not  after  having  become 
cold  that  these  bodies  lose  the  weight  added  to  their  substance  by  the 
action  of  the  fire.  It  would  be  necessary  also  to  know  if  M.  Geoffrey 
thinks  that  the  igneous  matter  alone  has  caused  this  increase  of 
weight ;  if  the  iron  ladle  with  which  they  stirred  during  the  operation, 
or  if  the  vessel  which  contained  the  metal,  did  not  increase  the  weight 
of  that  metal  by  transfusing  into  it  some  of  its  own  substance.  Ascer- 
tain, my  dear  friend,  the  opinion  of  the  apothecary  upon  all  these 
points,  and  send  it  to  me  quick.  You  are  very  capable  of  making  tliis 
chemist  talk,  and  all  the  chemists  of  the  Academy,  and  of  understand- 
ing them  well.     I  count  upon  your  friendship  and  discretion." 

[July  6,  1737.]  ''It  is  a  pleasure,  my  dear  friend,  to  give  you 
learned  commissions,  so  well  do  you  acquit  yourself  of  them.  No 
one  could  render  service  better  or  more  promptly.  I  have  just  per- 
formed the  experiment  upon  iron  which  the  learned  charcoal-burner, 
M.  Grosse,  advises.  I  weighed  a  piece  of  two  pounds,  which  I  made 
red-hot  upon  a  tile  in  the  open  air.  I  weighed  it  red,  I  weighed  it 
cold ;  it  always  weighed  the  same.  I  have  been  weighing  every  day 
lately  iron  and  melted  iron,  flaming  hot :  I  have  weighed  from  two 
pounds  to  a  thousand.  So  far  from  finding  the  weight  of  red-hot  iron 
greater,  I  have  found  it  much  smaller,  which  I  attribute  to  the  fur- 
nace, prodigiously  hot,  which  consumed  some  particles  of  iron.  It  is 
this  which  I  pray  you  to  communicate  to  M.  Grosse  when  you  see 
him  ;  visit,  then,  promptly  this  gnome,  and,  with  your  usual  precaution, 
consult  him  anew.  He  is  a  man  well  informed  upon  these  subjects. 
Ascertain,  then,  1st,  if  he  believes  that  fire  has  weight ;  2d,  if  the  ex- 
periments made  by  M.  Homberg  and  others  ought  to  prevail  over  that 
of  the  iron  red  and  iron  cooled,  which  always  weigh  the  same.  We 
are  surrounded,  my  dear  abbe,  with  uncertainties  of  all  possible  kinds. 
The  least  truth  gives  us  infinite  pains  to  discover.  3d.  Ask  him  if  the 
burning  glass  of  the  Palais-Royal  has  the  same  effect  upon  matter  ex- 
posed to  the  air  as  in  the  vacuum  of  the  air-pumj).     Upon  this  point 


MAN  OF  BUSINESS.  325 

you  must  make  him  talk  a  long  time.  Ask  him  the  effects  of  the  rays 
of  the  sun  in  that  vacuum  upon  gunpowder,  upon  iron,  upon  liquors, 
upon  metals,  and  make  a  little  note  of  all  the  answers  of  this  learned 
man.  4th.  Ask  him  if  the  phosphorus  of  Boyle,  the  burning  phos- 
phorus, takes  fire  in  a  vacuum.  Finally,  ask  if  he  has  seen  any  good 
Persian  naphtha,  and  if  it  is  true  that  this  naphtha  burns  in  water. 
There  you  are,  my  dear  abbe,  a  finished  natural  philosopher.  I  pester 
you  terribly,  for  I  still  add  that  I  am  in  a  hurry  for  this  informatiini. 
I  abuse  your  complaisance  excessively,  but  in  atonement  I  love  you 
excessively." 

[August,  1737.]  "  Every  day,  my  dear  friend,  brings  you,  then, 
new  importunity  from  me.  Tell  me,  will  it  not  be  abusing  your  pa- 
tience to  pray  you  to  see  M.  Grosse  again,  and  to  have  with  that  cel- 
ebrated chemist  a  new  scientific  conversation  ?  See  him,  then,  and 
have  the  goodness  to  ask  that  learned  charcoal-burner  if  he  has  ever 
performed  the  experiment  of  plunging  his  thermometer  in  spirits  of 
wine,  in  spirits  of  nitre,  to  see  if  the  mercury  rises  in  those  liquors. 
I  am,  my  dear  abbe,  always  ashamed  of  my  importunities  ;  but  spare 
neither  cariiages  nor  messengers,  and  always  transact  the  affairs  of 
your  friend  entirely  at  your  ease." 

[October,  1737.]  "  Ts  M.  de  Breze  quite  solid?  What  do  you 
think  of  it,  my  prudent  friend  ?  This  article  of  interest  having  been 
maturely  examined,  take  twenty  thousand  francs  from  M.  Michel  and 
give  them  to  M.  Breze,  at  ten  per  cent.  This  investment  will  be  the 
more  agreeable,  as  we  shall  be  paid  easily  and  regularly  upon  the  pro- 
ceeds of  his  houses  in  Paris.  Arrange  this  affair  for  the  best ;  and, 
once  arranged,  if  the  estate  of  Spoix  can  be  bought  for  fifty  thousand 
francs,  we  shall  find  the  money  towards  the  month  of  April.  We 
shall  sell  some  bonds.  We  shall  borrow  at  five  per  cent.,  which  will 
not  be  difficult  either  to  you  or  to  me.  Life  is  short ;  Solomon  tells 
us  we  must  enjoy  it ;  I  think  to  enjoy,  and  for  that  reason  I  feel 
within  me  a  grand  vocation  to  be  gardener,  plowman,  and  vine- 
dresser. Perhaps  even  I  shall  succeed  better  in  planting  trees,  in  dig- 
ging the  earth,  and  in  making  it  fruitful  than  in  composing  tragedies, 
experimenting  in  chemistry,  writing  epic  poems,  and  othc_  sublime  fol- 
lies which  make  implacable  foes.  Give  '  L'Enfant  Prodigue'^  to 
Prault  for  fifty  louis  d'or,  —  six  hundred  francs  down,  and  a  note  for 
the  other  six  hundred  francs,  payable  when  this  unhappy  Enfant  shall 
see  the  light.  This  money  will  be  employed  in  some  good  work.  I 
do  not  rebel  against  my  destiny,  which  is  to  have  a  little  glory  and 
some  hisses." 

[November,  1737.]      "Your  patience,  my  dear  abbe,  is  going  to 

1  Comedy  by  Voltaire. 


326  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

be  put  to  a  severe  proof ;  I  tremble  lest  you  may  be  unable  to  sustain 
it.  I  hope  everything  from  your  friendship.  Affairs  temporal,  affairs 
spiritual,  these  are  the  two  great  subjects  of  the  long  babble  with 
which  I  am  about  to  trouble  you.  M.  de  Lezeau  owes  me  three 
years ;  it  is  necessary  to  press  him  without  too  much  importunity. 
A  letter  to  the  Prince  de  Guise ;  that  costs  nothing,  and  advances 
matters.  The  Villars  and  the  D'Auneuils  owe  two  years ;  it  is  neces- 
sary politely  and  nicely  to  remonstrate  with  those  gentlemen  touch- 
ing their  duties  to  their  creditors.  It  is  necessary  also  to  finish  with 
M.  de  Richelieu,  and  to  consent  to  what  he  wishes.  I  should  have 
some  great  objections  to  make  upon  what  he  proposes  ;  but  1  love  better 
a  conclusion  than  an  objection.  Conclude,  then,  my  dear  friend;  I 
trust  myself  blindly  to  your  discretion,  which  is  always  very  useful 
to  me.  Prault  ought  to  give  fifty  francs  to  monsieur  your  brother. 
I  wish  him  to  do  so.  It  is  a  trifling  bonus,  a  bagatelle,  which  is 
part  of  my  bargain ;  and  when  that  bagatelle  shall  be  paid,  monsieur 
your  brother  will  scold  for  me  the  negligent  Prault,  who  in  the 
parcels  of  books  which  I  order  always  makes  delays  that  try  my 
patience  cruelly  ;  nothing  that  he  sends  me  arrives  at  the  time 
appointed.  Monsieur  your  brother  will  then  inquire  of  that  book- 
seller, or  of  any  other  that  he  wishes,  for  a  Puffendorf;  for  the 
chemistry  of  Boerhaave,  the  most  complete  edition  ;  for  a  *  Letter 
upon  the  Divisibility  of  Matter,'  published  by  Jomvert ;  for  the  '  In- 
dex of  the  Thirty-First  Volume  of  the  History  of  the  Academy  of 
Sciences ; '  for  Marriotte  upon  the  '  Nature  of  the  Air ; '  the  same 
author  upon  '  Cold  and  Heat ; '  for  Boyle  '  De  Ratione  inter  Ignem 
et  Flammam,'  difficult  to  find :  that  is  the  affair  of  monsieur  your 
brother.  Other  commissions  :  two  reams  of  foolscap,  the  same  of 
letter  paper,  —  the  whole  of  Holland  ;  twelve  sticks  of  Spanish  sealing- 
wax  for  spirits  of  wine  ;  a  Copernican  sphere  ;  a  burning  glass  of 
the  largest  size ;  my  engravings  of  the  Luxembourg ;  two  globes 
mounted ;  two  thermometers ;  two  barometers  (the  longest  are  the 
best)  ;  two  scales,  well  graduated ;  some  crucibles  ;  some  retorts.  In 
making  purchases,  my  friend,  always  prefer  the  handsome  and  excel- 
lent, if  a  little  dear,  to  a  common  article  less  costly. 

"  So  much  for  the  literary  man  who  seeks  to  instruct  himself 
after  the  Fontenelles,  the  Boyles,  the  Boerhaaves,  and  other  learned 
men.  What  follows  is  for  the  material  man,  who  digests  very  ill ; 
who  has  need  to  take,  as  they  tell  him,  plenty  of  exercise ;  and  who, 
beside  this  need,  of  necessity  has  also  some  other  needs  of  society.  I 
pray  you,  in  consequence,  to  buy  for  him  a  good  fowling-piece ;  a 
pretty  game-bag  with  appurtenances  ;  a  gun-hammer  ;  a  draw-charge; 
large   diamond  shoe-buckles ;   other  diamond  garter-buckles  ;  twenty 


I 


MA2?   OF  BUSINESS.  327 

pounds  of  hair  powder ;  ten  pounds  of  smelling  powder ;  a  bottle  of 
essence  of  jasmin ;  two  enormous  pots  of  orange  pomatum ;  two 
powder  puffs  ;  a  very  good  knife  ;  three  fine  sponges  ;  three  dusters ; 
four  bundles  of  quills*  two  pairs  of  toilet  pincers,  very  nice ;  a  pair 
of  very  good  pocket  scissors ;  two  floor  brushes ;  finally,  three  pairs 
of  slippers,  well  furred ;  and,  besides  —  I  remember  nothing  more. 
Of  all  these  make  a  parcel ;  two,  if  necessary  ;  three,  even,  if  neces- 
sary :  your  packer  is  excellent.  Send  the  whole  by  way  of  Joinville  ; 
not  to  my  address,  for  I  am  in  England  (I  beg  you  to  remember 
that),  but  to  the  address  of  Madame  de  Champbouin.  All  that  costs 
money,  you  will  tell  me ;  and  where  to  get  the  money  ?  Where  you 
wish,  my  dear  abbe.  We  have  some  bonds  ;  we  can  convert  them. 
We  ought  never  to  neglect  anything  for  our  pleasure,  since  life  is 
short.     I  shall  be  entirely  yours  during  that  short  life." 

[December,  1737.]  "  Instead  of  money  which  Prault  owes  me,  my 
dear  abbe,  I  have  ordered  some  books  of  him.  You  tell  me  he  is 
dissatisfied ;  I  am  surprised  at  it ;  he  ought  to  know  that  an  author 
never  deprives  himself  of  the  right  of  foreign  editions.  As  soon 
as  a  book  is  printed  at  Paris  with  privilege,  the  publishers  of  Hol- 
land seize  it,  and  the  first  who  prints  it  has  the  exclusive  privilege 
in  that  country  ;  and  to  have  this  right  of  printing  it  first  it  suffices 
to  announce  the  work  in  the  gazettes.  It  is  an  established  usage, 
which  holds  the  place  of  law.  Now,  when  I  wish  to  favor  a  pub- 
lisher in  Holland,  I  advertise  him  of  the  work  which  I  am  printing  in 
France,  and  I  endeavor  to  let  him  have  the  first  copy,  in  order  that 
he  may  get  beforehand  with  the  trade.  I  have  then  promised  a 
Holland  publisher  that  I  will  immediately  send  him  a  copy  of  the 
work  in  question,  and  I  have  promised  him  this  little  favor  to  in- 
demnify him  for  the  delay  in  finishing  the  elements  of  the  philos- 
ophy of  Newton,  which  he  began  to  print  nearly  a  year  ago.  The 
point  is  to  hurry  on  Prault,  in  order  at  the  same  time  to  hasten  the 
little  advantage  which  will  indemnify  the  Holland  publisher,  for 
whom  I  have  an  affection,  and  who  is  a  very  honest  man.  M.  Prault 
knows  very  well  that  this  is  the  point.  His  privilege  is  for  France, 
and  not  for  Holland.  He  has  never  done  business  except  upon  this 
footing,  and  on  condition  that  the  work  should  be  printed  at  Paris 
and  at  Amsterdam  simultaneously.  To  prevent  all  difficulty,  send  him 
this  note,  and  let  him  put  in  it  his  reply.  These  are  the  facts,  and 
I  ask  your  pardon  for  this  verbiage.  Prault  still  owes  fifty  francs 
to  monsieur  your  brother ;  I  wish  him  to  pay  them.  This  is  a  new 
bonus  which  I  beg  your  brother  to  accept.  I  pray  him  also  to  send 
me  the  old  tragedy  of  '  Cresphonte,'  and  all  the  old  books  which  I 
have  noted  upon  the  catalogue  which  he  sent  me." 


328 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


[Cambridge,  December,  1737.]  "I  am  very  glad,  my  dear  natural 
philosopher,  that  M.  de  Foutenelle  has  explained  himself  touching  the 
propagation  of  fire.  As  the  light  of  the  sun  is  the  most  powerful  fire 
which  we  know,  it  was  natural  to  have  some  ideas  a  little  clear  upon 
that  elementary  fire.  It  was  the  affair  of  a  philosopher;  the  rest  is  a 
blacksmith's  business.  I  am  in  the  midst  of  forges,  and  the  subject 
suits  me  well  enough.  I  hope  that  Bronod  will  explain  himself  as 
clearly  respecting  the  fifty  louis  of  which  you  speak  as  M.  de  Foute- 
nelle upon  light.  If  Bronod  does  not  pay  this  money,  I  believe  it  will 
be  necessary  to  sell  a  bond.  I  see  no  great  harm  in  that;  one  never 
loses  his  dividend.  It  is  true  that  the  price  varies  towards  the  time  of 
their  payment,  that  is  to  say,  every  six  mouths;  but  that  amounts  to 
little  ;  and,  besides,  it  is  better  to  sacrifice  some  pistoles  that  give  you 
the  trouble  of  calling  again  upon  M.  Bronod.  The  three  louis  which 
you  gave  finally  to  M.  Robert  were  doubtless  for  the  advances  he  has 
made.  I  cannot  imagine  that  a  solicitor  has  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
incur  expense  for  me,  since  I  have  had  no  law  business,  unless  I  have 
had  a  suit  without  knowing  it.  M.  Michel  wishes,  then,  to  keep  my 
money  until  the  first  of  March  ?  Be  it  so.  Let  him  have  it ;  it  will 
be  always  two  months'  interest  gained.  Let  us  not  disdain  such  pick- 
ings. Make,  I  pray  you,  if  you  think  it  necessary,  a  little  present  to 
the  steward  of  M.  de  Richelieu ;  but  before  doing  so  we  must  have 
good  security  for  my  arrears,  and  security  that  henceforth  I  receive 
regularly  four  thousand  francs  a  year.  A  louis  d'or  to  D'Arnaud, 
without  telling  him  either  where  I  am  or  what  I  am  doing ;  neither 
him  nor  any  one  else.  I  am  at  Cirey  for  you  alone,  and  in  Cochin 
China  for  all  the  Parisians;  or,  which  wiU  be  more  probable,  confined 
in  some  province  of  England." 

[December,  1737.]  "The  picture  of  myself  drawn  in  jiastel,  my 
dear  abbe,  is  horrible  and  wretched,  whatever  the  engraver  thinks ; 
little  do  I  care.  I  shall  not  take  the  part  of  my  countenance,  which  I 
do  not  know  too  well ;  but,  my  dear  friend,  can  they  not  make  me  less 
ugly  ?  I  leave  that  to  your  care ;  especially,  do  not  speak  of  it  to 
Madame  du  Chatelet.  Let  us  come  to  the  affair  of  this  lady.  See,  as 
soon  as  possible,  Hebert,  and  recommend  to  him  the  greatest  diligence. 
You  have  given  him  fifty  louis ;  give  him  fifty  more  if  he  demands 
them,  and  assure  him  that  at  the  instant  of  delivery  the  whole  shall  be 
exactly  paid.  If,  in  accordance  with  my  last  letter,  you  have  sold  a 
bond,  you  have  done  well ;  if  you  have  not  sold  one,  still  you  have 
done  well.  I  approve  you  in  everything,  because  all  that  you  do  is 
always  well  doue,  and  you  deserve  that  I  thank  you  and  that  I  em- 
brace you  heartily." 

[July  12,  1740.]     "  I  received  your  letter  of  the  9th,  in  which  you 


MAN  OF   BUSINESS.  329 

inform  me  ol  the  general  bankruptcy  of  the  receiver-general  named 
Michel.  A  sufficiently  large  portion  of  my  property  is  involved 
(40,000  francs).  The  Lord  gave,  the  Lord  has  taken  away;  blessed 
be  the  name  of  the  Lord.  To  suffer  my  ills  in  patience  has  been  my 
lot  for  forty  years  ;  and  one  can  submit  to  Providence  without  being 
a  devotee.  I  confess  that  I  did  not  expect  this  failure,  and  I  do  not 
understand  how  a  receiver-general  of  the  finances  of  his  Most  Chris- 
tian Majesty,  a  very  rich  man,  too,  could  fail  so  awkwardly,  unless  it 
is  because  he  wished  to  be  richer.  In  that  case,  M.  IVIichel  is  doubly 
wrong.     I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  cry,  — 

Michel,  au  nora  de  I'Eternel, 
Met  jadis  le  diable  en  de'route  ; 
Mais  apres  cette  banqueroute. 
Que  le  diable  emporte  Michel.  ^ 

"  But  this  would  be  a  poor  jest,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  make  light 
either  of  M.  Michel's  losses  or  of  my  own.  Nevertheless,  my  dear 
abbd,  you  will  find  the  result  to  be  that  M.  Michel's  children  will  re- 
main very  rich,  very  well  placed Have  the  goodness  to  speak 

to  Michel's  cashier  ;  endeavor  to  get  from  him  how  we  should  pro- 
ceed so  as  not  to  lose  all Good-night ;  I  embrace  you  with 

all  my  soul.  Console  yourself  for  the  rout  of  Michel ;  your  friend- 
ship consoles  me  for  my  loss."  ^ 

[December,  1737.]  "You  speak  to  me,  my  dear  abbe,  of  a  good- 
man  chemist,  and  I  hear  you  with  pleasure.  Then  you  propose  that 
I  should  take  him  into  my  service  ;  I  ask  nothing  better.  He  will 
enjoy  here  complete  liberty,  be  not  ill  lodged,  be  well  nourished,  have 
great  convenience  for  cultivating  at  his  ease  his  talent  as  a  chemist; 
but  it  is  indispensable  that  he  should  know  how  to  say  mass  on  Sun- 
days and  festivals  in  the  chapel  of  the  chateau.  This  mass  is  a  con- 
dition without  which  I  could  not  engage  him.  I  will  give  him  a  hun- 
dred crowns  \_ecus]  a  year,  but  I  can  do  nothing  more.  He  must  also 
be  informed  that  we  take  our  meals  very  rarely  with  the  Marquise 
du  Chatelet,  whose  meal-times  are  not  very  regular  ;  but  there  is  a 
table  for  the  Count  du  Chatelet,  her  son,  and  his  tuto>',  a  man  of 
understanding,  served  regularly  at  noon  and  at  eight  in  the  evening. 
M.  du  Chatelet,  the  elder,  often  eats  at  that  table,  and  occasionally 
we  all  sup  together.  Besides,  we  enjoy  here  perfect  liberty.  For 
the  present  we  can  only  give  him  a  chamber  with  an  ante-chamber. 
If  he  accepts  my  propositions,  he  can  come  and  bring  all  his  appa- 
ratus with  him.     If  he  is  in  need  of  money  you  can  advance  him 

1  Michael,  in  the  name  of  the  Eternal,  formerly  put  the  devil  to  rout;  but, 
after  this  bankruptcy,  may  the  devil  fly  away  with  Michael  1 

2  Lettres  de  Voltaire  a  I'Abbe  Moussiuot,  page  213. 


330  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

a  quarter,  on  conditiou  that  he  starts  at  once.  If  he  delays  his  de- 
parture, do  not  delay,  my  dear  treasurer,  to  send  me  some  money 
by  the  coach.  Instead  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  louis,  send  boldly 
three  hundred  of  them,  with  the  books  and  the  bagatelles  I  have 
asked  for.  For  the  rest,  my  dear  friend,  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
your  chemist  is  a  man  of  sense,  since  you  propose  him.  Tell  me  his 
name,  for,  really,  I  must  know  how  he  calls  himself.  If  he  makes 
Fahrenheit  thermometers,  he  will  make  some  here,  and  render  service 
to  natural  philosophy.  Are  those  thermometers  of  the  same  scale  as 
Reaumur's  ?  These  instruments  do  not  accord  unless  they  sound  the 
same  octave." 

[May,  1738.]  '*  I  would  like,  my  dear  abbe,  a  pretty  little  watch, 
good  or  bad,  simple,  of  silver  merely,  with  a  cord  of  silk  and  gold. 
Three  louis  ought  to  pay  for  that.  You  will  send  it  to  me  suMto,^ 
subito,  by  the  coach.  It  is  a  little  present  which  I  wish  to  make  to 
the  son  of  M.  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet,  a  child  ten  years  old.  He 
will  break  it,  but  he  wishes  one,  and  I  am  afraid  of  being  anticipated. 
I  embrace  you." 

[June,  1738.]  "  The  watch  was  just  the  thing.  It  was  received 
with  transport,  and  I  thank  you,  my  dear  abbe,  for  taking  so  much 
pains." 

1  Quickly. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

LITERARY  WORK  AT  CIREY. 

And  now  for  the  realization  of  the  dream  of  peaceful,  glo- 
rious toil,  far  from  the  distractions  of  the  world,  solaced  every 
hour  by  love. 

His  first  labors  at  Cirey,  which  were  begun  and  continued 
amid  crowds  of  workmen  and  heaps  of  litter,  were  of  an  ab- 
stract and  thoughtful  nature,  inspired  by  Pope's  "  Essay  on 
Man,"  then  in  the  splendor  of  its  first  celebrity.  Voltaire 
had  received  the  early  cantos  in  1732,  in  time  to  insert  a  pas- 
sage concerning  them  in  his  English  Letters,  and  in  1734 
came  the  completed  work,  in  a  quarto  volume,  with  dedication 
to  Lord  Bolingbroke.  It  so  moved  and  roused  him  that,  while 
he  had  a  princely  wedding  on  his  hands  and  a  new  love  in  his 
heart,  while  a  lettre  de  cachet  was  on  his  track,  while  he  was 
finishing  a  tragedy  and  writing  a  comedy,  while  he  was  restor- 
ing and  furnishing  a  chateau,  while  he  was  in  hiding  at  Brus- 
sels, his  graver  thoughts  revolved  the  mighty  themes  touched 
in  Pope's  Essay.  His  seven  "  Discourses  on  Man,"  in  verse, 
and  his  "  Treatise  on  Metaphysics,"  in  prose,  contain  the  sub- 
stance of  those  thoughts.  Three  of  the  Discourses  were  writ- 
ten in  1734,  and  the  others  in  the  three  years  following,  as 
mood  and  opportunity  favored. 

The  first  of  the  Discourses  turns  upon  the  equality  of  hu- 
man conditions  :  "  Mortals  are  equal ;  their  mask  differs ;  " 
wealth  has  its  drawbacks,  and  poverty  its  compensations.  The 
second,  upon  Liberty,  maintains  that  man  mak.3s  or  mars  his 
own  happiness.  "  Love  truth,  but  pardon  error.  The  mortal 
who  goes  astray  is  still  a  man  and  thy  brother.  Be  wise  for 
thyself  alone,  compassionate  for  him.  Achieve  thine  own  wel- 
fare by  blessing  others."  The  third  Discourse  declares  that 
the  chief  obstacle  to  human  happiness  is  envy.  "  Take  re- 
venge upon  a  rival  by  surpassing  him."    The  fourth  inculcates 


332  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

the  truth  that  excess  is  fatal  to  enjoyment,  and  moderation  one 
of  the  inflexible  conditions  of  happiness.  "  To  desii'e  all  is 
the  mark  of  a  fool ;  excess  is  his  portion.  Moderation  is  the 
treasure  of  the  mse ;  he  knows  how  to  control  his  tastes,  his 
labors,  his  pleasures."  "  Work  is  often  the  father  of  pleas- 
ure ;  I  pity  the  man  overwhelmed  with  the  weight  of  his 
own  leisure.  Happiness  is  a  good  that  nature  sells  us."  The 
fifth  Discourse  is  upon  the  Nature  of  Pleasure,  and  shows  that 
pleasure  is  the  lure  that  God  uses  to  make  us  execute  his 
purposes,  and  is  therefore  not  to  be  placed  under  the  ban  of 
religion.  "Calvin, —  that  fool,  sombre  and  severe."  "It  is 
necessary  to  be  a  man  before  being  a  Christian."  "Without 
tlie  attraction  of  pleasure,  who  would  submit  to  the  laws  of 
Hymen  ?  "  The  sixth  Discourse,  upon  the  Nature  of  Man,  is 
a  confession  that  man  knows  very  little  of  his  nature,  but  must 
make  the  best  of  it,  and  bear  in  mind  that  perfect  felicity  can 
never  be  the  lot  of  mortal.  "  One  day  some  mice  said  to  one 
another,  '  How  charming  is  this  world  !  What  an  empire  is 
ours  !  This  palace  so  superb  was  built  for  us  ;  from  all  eter- 
nity God  made  for  us  these  large  holes.  Do  you  see  those  fat 
hams  under  that  dim  ceiling  ?  They  were  created  there  for  us 
by  Nature's  hands ;  those  mountains  of  lard,  eternal  aliment, 
will  be  oui'S  to  the  end  of  time.  Yes,  we  are,  great  God,  if  our 
sages  tell  us  the  truth,  the  masterpiece,  the  end,  the  aim,  of  all 
thy  works.  Cats  are  dangerous  and  prompt  to  devour,  but  it 
is  to  instruct  and  correct  us.'  "  The  seventh  and  last  of  these 
Discourses  is  upon  True  Virtue.  "  The  miracles  are  good ; 
but  to  relieve  a  brother,  to  draw  a  friend  from  the  depths 
of  misery,  to  pardon  the  virtues  of  our  enemies,  —  these  are 
greater  miracles."  "  The  true  virtue,  then,  is  '  beneficence  ; ' 
a  new  word  in  the  French  language,  but  the  whole  universe 
ought  to  cherish  the  idea." 

The  seven  poems  —  fluent,  light,  witty,  brief,  often  wise  and 
salutary  —  are  surcharged  with  the  Voltairean  essence  ;  not 
anti-Christian,  but  anti-Pascal.  They  are  such  as  Horace 
micrht  have  written  if  he  had  had  seventeen  Christian  centu- 
ries  behind  him,  instead  of  before  him.  Their  airy  liglitness 
and  grace  made  them  universally  read,  and  they  will  doubt- 
less retain  their  power  when  Voltaire  and  Pascal  at  last  meet 
in  a  religion  that  will  include  and  honor  both. 


LITERARY   WORK  AT   CIREY.  333 

A  line  of  the  Discourse  upon  the  Nature  of  Man  gives  us 
one  of  Voltaire's  maxims  of  the  art  of  writing :  "  The  secret 
of  wearying  your  reader  is  to  tell  him  all." 

During  the  first  years  of  his  residence  at  the  chateau,  the 
reading  of  one  of  these  Discourses  was  frequently  part  of  the 
evening  entertainment  provided  for  a  guest,  followed,  perhaps, 
by  a  new  canto  of  the  "  Pucelle  ;  "  and  nothing  is  more  cer- 
tain than  that,  in  polite  circles,  the  two  readings  were  consid- 
ered equally  legitimate  and  proper.  Such  were  the  chateau 
manners  of  the  time. 

A  graver  and  longer  work,  in  prose,  the  "  Treatise  upon 
Metaphysics,"  was  also  written  amid  the  confusion  of  settling 
at  Cirey.  This  Treatise  is  a  simple  and  clear  statement  of  the 
author's  convictions  concerning  man,  God,  immortality,  the 
freedom  of  the  will,  the  nature  of  the  soul,  man's  duty,  and 
the  sources  of  his  welfare.  When  Madame  de  Rupelmonde, 
many  years  before,  asked  him  what  she  ought  to  think  on 
such  subjects,  he  replied  by  a  sprightly  deistical  poem.  Prob- 
ably the  Marquise  du  Chatelet  had  asked  him  a  similar  ques- 
tion, and  this  seventy-five-page  pamphlet  was  such  a  reply 
as  he  would  have  made  to  a  lady  fond  of  mathematics  and  ac- 
customed to  read  Locke.  There  is  only  one  dull  or  repellent 
word  in  the  piece,  and  that  is  its  title,  which  has  doubtless 
kept  many  persons  from  looking  farther.  In  his  own  chatty, 
irresistible  manner,  he  draws  the  idlest  reader  on,  while  he 
gives  his  reasons  for  thinking  that  men  cannot  be  descended 
from  a  single  pair,  and  must  have  been  created  by  a  God. 
The  watch  proves  the  tvatchnaker  was  his  constant  argument 
for  the  existence  of  God,  at  every  period  of  his  life,  and  he  de- 
veloped it  in  this  Treatise  some  years  before  Paley  was  born. 
While  admitting  God,  he  denies  providence.  The  universe  is 
governed  by  laws  which  nothing  can  change,  —  laws  as  invaria- 
ble as  those  of  mathematics.  Revelation,  other  tl^an  that  of  sci- 
ence, he  rejects  with  his  usual  gayety  and  scorn,  —a  revelation 
that  "  tells  the  Jews  how  they  shall  go  to  the  garde-robe,  but  is 
silent  upon  the  soul  and  immortality !  "  "I  do  not  assert,"  he 
says,  "  that  I  have  demonstrations  against  the  spirituality  and 
immortality  of  the  soul ;  but  all  the  probabilities  are  against 
those  doctrines."  In  treating  of  the  nature  of  virtue,  he  lays 
down  this  simple  proposition  :  Virtue  is  conduct  which  benefits 
the  community ;  vice  is  conduct  which  injures  the  community. 


334  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Lying,  for  example,  is  generally  a  vice,  because  it  is  of  the 
greatest  importance  that  men  should  be  able  to  believe  and 
trust  one  another.  "  But  how  often  does  lying  become  an 
heroic  virtue?"  To  shrink  from  a  lie  when  it  would  save  a 
friend  from  deadly  peril  would  be,  he  says,  shameful  dereliction. 
As  to  religion,  he  plainly  reveals  his  conviction  that,  as  then 
established  in  Europe,  it  was  a  system  of  spoliation  and  oppres- 
sion, the  despot's  main  support  and  defense.  Every  desolater 
of  the  earth  began  his  work  of  massacre  and  ruin  by  solemn 
acts  of  religion,  and,  while  the  ground  still  smoked  with  car- 
nage, hastened  to  the  temple  to  i-epeat  those  solemn  acts.  Nor 
was  religion  necessary  as  an  ally  of  virtue,  since  men  conspic- 
uous for  unbelief,  like  Bayle,  Locke,  Spinoza,  Shaftesbury,  Col- 
lins, and  others,  were  men  of  rigid  virtue.  "  Much  to  be  pitied 
are  they  who  need  the  help  of  religion  to  be  honest  men." 

Such  was  the  famous  "  Treatise  upon  Metaphysics."  Its 
chief  merit  was  its  tone  of  candor,  moderation,  and  modesty. 
He  stated,  and  evidently  felt,  tlie  difficulties  attending  every 
solution  of  the  vast  enigma,  and  how  inadequate  were  the  fac- 
ulties of  man  to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of  life,  growth,  and 
death.  He  wrote  it  in  1734,  when  science  was  not  yet  grop- 
ing toward  the  central  secret,  and  when  few  men  could  offer  a 
conjectural,  or  state  an  hereditary,  solution  without  some  mixt- 
ure of  passion  or  bias  fatal  to  the  development  of  truth.  He 
uttered  his  real  thoughts.  He  wrote  without  cant,  without 
arrogance,  without  passion,  and  without  fear. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  how  he  returned  in  this  work  to 
the  point  where  the  Roman  poet,  Lucretius,  left  off,  about  the 
year  50  B.  C.  As  Lucretius  surveyed  the  Roman  Empire  and 
interpreted  human  life  in  it,  so  did  Voltaire  survey  and  in- 
terpret the  Roman  Catholic  empire,  of  which  he  was  a  part. 
Lucretius  spoke  of  "  the  life  of  man  lying  abject  and  foully 
groveling,  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  a  Religion  that  low- 
ered over  mortals  with  terrible  aspect,  until  Epicurus  rose  to 
make  a  stand  against  her."  "  Him  neither  tales  of  gods,  nor 
thunder-bolts,  nor  heaven  itself  with  its  threatening  roar,  re- 
pressed, but  roused  all  the  more  the  active  energy  of  his  soul, 
so  that  he  should  desire  to  be  the  first  to  break  the  close  bars 
of  nature's  portals."  ^ 

^  Lucretius  on  the  Nature  of  Things.  Rome,  about  50  B.  c.  Bohn's  edition. 
Loudon,  1872.     Book  I.,  page  6. 


LITERARY   WORK  AT   CIREY.  335 

Voltaire's  Treatise  could  not,  of  course,  be  published  just 
then.  The  manuscript  lay  among  his  papers  at  this  period, 
with  other  perilous  material,  to  keep  Madame  du  Chatelet  in 
alarm.  We  are  too  familiar  with  such  opinions  now  to  be 
able  to  feel  how  frightfully  explosive  the  little  book  was.  We 
have  learned,  and  Europe  is  learning,  that  the  most  prodig- 
ious bombshell  can  explode  harmlessly  out-of-doors,  with  red 
flags  duly  placed.  We  have  learned  that  publicity,  like  the 
winds  of  heaven,  is  a  perfect  disinfectant,  as  well  as  a  good 
seed-sower.  But  in  1735  there  was  terror  in  a  manuscript 
like  this,  as  in  a  loaded  shell  on  a  centre-table,  or  a  bottle  of 
phosphorus  in  a  medicine  chest. 

While  occupied  thus  with  works  and  thoughts  traceable  in 
some  degree  to  his  residence  in  England,  he  was  delighted  to 
learn  that  his  hospitable  friend  Falkener,  now  Sir  Everard 
Falkener,  had  been  appointed  English  ambassador  to  Constan- 
tinople. He  wrote  to  congratulate  him,  using  such  English  as 
he  had  left  after  seven  years  of  disuse  :  — 

[September  18,  1735.]  "  My  dear  Friend  !  Your  new  title  will 
change  neither  my  sentiments,  nor  my  expressions.  My  dear  Falk- 
ener !  friendship  is  full  of  talk,  but  it  must  be  discreet.  In  the  hurry 
of  business  you  are  in,  remember  only  I  talk'd  to  you,  about  seven 
years  ago,  of  that  very  same  ambassy.  Remember  I  am  the  first  man 
who  did  foretell  the  honour  you  enjoy.  Believe  then  no  man  is  more 
pleased  with  it  than  I  am.  I  have  my  share  in  your  happiness.  If 
you  pass  through  France  in  your  way  to  Constantinople,  I  advise  you 
I  am  but  twenty  leagues  from  Calais,  almost  in  the  road  to  Paris. 
The  castle  is  called  Cirey,  four  miles  from  Vassy  en  Champagne 
on  Saint-Dizier's  road,  and  eight  miles  from  Saint-Dizier.  The  post 
goes  thither.  There  lives  a  young  lady  called  the  marquise  Du  Chate- 
let, whom  I  have  taught  english  to,  and  who  longs  to  see  you.  You 
will  lie  here,  if  you  remember  your  friend."  ^ 

The  ambassador  went  to  Constantinople  by  s^n,  and  so 
missed  the  delights  of  Cirey.  Soon  after  he  was  settled  at 
Constantinople,  Voltaire  wrote  to  him  again,  and  in  better 
English :  — 

[February  22,  1736.]  "  Now  the  honest,  the  good  and  plain  phi- 
losopher of  Wandsworth,  represents  his  king  and  country,  and  is  equal 

1  1  Lettres  Inedites  de  Voltaire,  75  and  84. 


336 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


to  the  Grand-Seignior.     Certainly  England  is  the  only  country  where 

commerce  and  virtue  are  to  be  rewarded  with  such  an  honour.     If 

any  grief  [concern]  rests   still  upon  my  mind,  my  dear  friend  (for 

friend  you  are,  tho'  a  minister),  it  is  that  I  am  unable  to  be  a  witness 

of  your  new  sort  of  glory  and  felicity.     Had  I  not  regulated  my  life 

after  a  way  which  makes  me  a  kind  of  solitaire,  I  would  fly  to  that 

nation  of  savage  slaves,  whom  I  hate,  to  see  the  man  I  love.     What 

would  my  entertainment  be  !  and  how  full   the  overflowings  of  my 

heart,  in  contemplating  my  dear  Falkener,  amidst  so  many  Infidels  of 

all  hues,   smiling  with  his   humane   philosophy   at  the  superstitious 

follies  that  reign  on  the  one   side  at  Stamboul,  and  on  the  other  at 

Galata !     I  would  not  admire,  as  mylady  Mary  Worthley  Montagu 

says, 

The  vizir  prond,  distinguished  from  the  rest ; 
Six  slaves  in  gay  attire,  his  bridle  hold, 
His  bridle  rich  with  gems,  his  stirrups  gold  ! 

"  For,  how  the  devil !  should  I  admire  a  slave  upon  a  horse  ?  My 
friend  Falkener  I  should  admire  ! 

"  But  I  must  bid  adieu !  to  the  great  town  of  Constantin,  and  stay 
in  my  little  corner  of  the  world,  in  that  very  same  castle  where  you 
were  invited  to  come  in  your  way  to  Paris,  in  case  you  should  have 
taken  the  road  of  Calais  to  Marseille.  Your  taking  an  other  way, 
was  certainly  a  sad  disappointment  for  me,  and  especially  to  that  lady 
who  makes  use  of  your  Locke  and  of  more  of  your  other  books. 
Upon  my  word  !  a  French  lady  who  reads  Newton,  Locke,  Addison, 
and  Pope,  and  who  retires  from  the  bubbles  and  the  stunning  noise 
of  Paris,  to  cultivate  in  the  country  the  great  and  amiable  genius  she 
is  born  with,  is  more  valuable  than  your  Constantinople  and  all  the 
Turkish  empire  ! 

"  You  may  confidently  write  to  me,  by  the  way  of  Marseille,  chez 
madame  la  marquise  Du  Chdtelet,  a  Girey,  en  Champagne.  Be  sure 
I  shall  not  stir  from  that  spot  of  ground,  before  the  favour  of  your 
letter  comes  to  me.  ....  What  I  long  to  be  informed  of  is,  whether 
you  are  as  happy  as  you  seem  to  be.  Have  you  got  a  little  private 
seraglio  ?  or,  are  you  to  be  married  ?  Are  you  over-stoked  with  busi- 
ness ?  Does  your  indolence  or  laziness  comply  with  your  affairs  ?  Do 
you  drink  much  of  that  good  Cyprus  wine  ?  For  my  part,  I  am  here 
too  happy,  though  my  health  is  ever  very  weak  : 

Excepto  quod  non  simul  esses,  csetera  Isetus. 

"  Addio !  mio  carissimo  ambasciadore  !  Addio  !  le  baccio  umilmente 
le  maui !  L'amo,  e  la  reversico  !  "  ^ 

1  Adieu,  my  dearest  ambassador ;  adieu,  I  kiss  very  humbly  the  handa  of  your 
lordship.    I  love  and  honor  you. 


LITERAIIY  WORK  AT   CIREY.  337 

He  continued  to  correspond  with  the  ambassador,  always 
in  the  same  tone. 

Another  dramatic  success,  and  one  of  great  splendor,  fell 
to  his  lot  in  January,  1736,  while  he  was  absent  from  the 
scene.  "  Alzire,  or  the  Americans,"  was  the  name  of  the  new 
tragedy,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in  that  land  so  exceed- 
ingly remote  then  from  the  knowledge  of  Europeans,  —  Peru, 
The  attention  of  Europe  had  been  just  drawn  to  that  country 
by  the  expedition  sent  thither  by  the  French  Academy  of  Sci- 
ences to  measure  an  arc  of  the  meridian,  with  a  view  to  as- 
certain the  precise  form  of  the  earth.  Voltaire's  old  friend, 
Condamine,  v/as  one  of  the  party.  "  Alzire,"  moreover,  was 
similar  to  "  Zaire  "  in  contrasting  two  civilizations  and  two 
religions,  and  in  affording  opportunity  for  striking  costume 
and  barbaric  magnificence.  During  the  turbulent  period,  when 
the  poet  was  battling  with  ministers  at  Paris  and  masons  at 
Cirey,  Thieriot,  as  it  seems,  talked  of  the  new  play  in  an 
exulting  strain,  in  the  hearing  of  Le  Franc,  a  young  author, 
who  had  recently  made  a  dramatic  success  of  much  promise 
with  his  tragedy  of  "  Didon."  Le  Franc  at  once  wrote  a  Pe- 
ruvian tragedy,  and  read  it  to  the  actors,  who  accepted  it 
with  joy.  Voltaire  was  not  the  person  to  allow  poaching  on 
any  manor  of  his.  He  wrote  a  witheringly  polite,  ingenious 
letter  to  the  comedians,  stating  his  case,  and  modestly  claiming 
to  have  his  play,  such  as  it  was,  produced  first,  since  he  had 
originated  the  subject,  and  since  no  play  of  his  could  have  the 
least  chance  of  success  if  performed  after  that  of  M.  Le  Franc» 
who  was  in  all  the  vigor  and  brilliancy  of  youth. 

M.  Le  Franc  was  obliged  to  stand  aside  and  wait.  "  Al- 
zire "  was  performed  January  27,  1736,-  with  perfect  success, 
the  first  of  a  long  line  of  Peruvian  plays.  For  twenty  suc- 
cessive nights  —  a  great  run  then  —  it  was  repeated  to  houses 
averaging  2682  francs  ;  it  was  performed  twice  at  court ;  it 
remained  a  popular  piece  during  the  rest  of  the  century,  and, 
indeed,  until  the  later  development  of  the  French  drama  ren- 
dered that  mode  of  dramatic  presentation  obsolete.  It  need 
not  be  said  that  this  play  teemed  with  the  Voltairean  mes- 
sage from  end  to  end.  That  message  was  repeated  in  notes, 
in  prefaces,  and  in  the  elaborate  dedication  to  Madame  du 
Chatelet.  "-  The  religion  of  a  barbarian,"  says  the  Discourse 
VOL.  I.  22 


338  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

Preliminary,  "  consists  in  offering  to  his  gods  the  blood  of  his 
enemies.  An  ill-instructed  Christian  is  often  little  more  rea- 
sonable. To  be  faithful  to  some  useless  observances,  and  un- 
faithful to  the  true  duties  of  man;  to  offer  certain  prayers, 
and  retain  bis  vices  ;  to  fast,  but  hate  ;  to  cabal,  to  persecute, 
—  such  is  his  relis^ion.  That  of  the  true  Christian  is  to  re- 
gard  all  men  as  his  brothers  ;  to  do  them  good,  and  pardon 
their  ill-doing." 

It  is  noticeable  that,  in  his  public  dedication  of  the  work, 
he  makes  no  secret  that  it  was  written  in  ]\Iadame  du  Chate- 
let's  house,  and  that  he  hopes  to  live  there,  "  near  her,  for 
the  rest  of  his  life,"  in  the  cultivation  of  literature  and  the 
search  for  truth,  "  to  which  she  has  sacrificed  in  her  youth 
the  false  biit  enchanting  pleasures  of  the  world." 

"  Alzire  "  was  still  fresh  in  the  recollection  of  play-goers 
when  an  event  occurred  at  the  Th^atre-Francais  that  kept 
all  the  cafds  talking  for  a  week,  and  has  made  a  good  cafd 
and  green-room  tradition  ever  since.  It  was  the  10th  of  Oc- 
tober, 1736.  The  play  advertised  for  that  evening  was  Ra- 
cine's "  Britannicus."  The  audience  was  assembled,  and  the 
time  for  beginning  had  come.  A  member  of  the  company 
appeared  before  the  curtain,  and  addressed  the  audience.  An 
actress,  he  said,  who  was  cast  in  a  leading  part  of  "Britanni- 
cus "  had  become  suddenly  indisposed,  and  the  play  could  not 
be  presented.  But,  most  fortunately^  a  new  five-act  comedy, 
in  verse,  by  an  anonymous  author,  was  in  readiness,  though 
not  yet  announced  ;  and,  if  the  audience  pleased,  it  would  be 
given  instead  of  the  traged5\  The  comedy  was  called  "  The 
Prodigal  Son"  (L'Enfant  Prodigue).  What  audience  could 
object  to  such  unexpected  good  fortune?  The  piece  was 
played.  It  was  received  with  the  warmest  applause,  an- 
nounced for  repetition,  continued  to  be  given,  with  an  inter- 
ruption, for  thirty  nights,  and  thus  thrust  upon  the  cafes  of 
Paris  an  agitating  problem.  Who  could  have  written  it  ? 
Not  Piron,  surely.  Perhaps  Destouches.  Probably  Gresset. 
Gresset,  no  doubt,  was  the  rumor  for  some  days.  Voltaire  ? 
Out  of  the  question  ! 

The  astute  reader  knows,  of  course,  that  the  author  was 
managing  this  comedy  within  a  comedy  from  the  castle  of 
Cirey,  in  "St.   Dizier's  road,"  in  Champagne.      When   that 


LITERARY  WORK  AT  CIREY-  339 

author  was  showing  himself  in  Paris,  in  the  spring  of  1735, 
he  supped  one  evening  with  Mademoiselle  Quinault,  a  leading 
actress  of  the  Theatre-Franc^ais.  She  chanced  to  mention 
that  she  had  seen  lately  a  dramatic  sketch  at  a  Fair  theatre, 
which,  coarse  and  crude  as  it  was,  had  in  it  the  germ  of  a 
good  comedy,  and  that  she  was  going  to  suggest  it  as  a  subject 
to  Destouches.  She  gave  an  account  of  the  plot :  Two  sons  : 
one  of  them  merry  and  wild,  but  noble,  the  other  a  steady- 
going,  miserly  dastard ;  both  attracted  to  the  same  lovely 
gh-1,  one  by  true  love,  the  other  by  her  large  dowry  ;  at  the 
end,  the  true  lover  winning  the  prize.  Voltaire  listened  in 
silence,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  he  knew  two  such  brothers 
in  Paris.  The  next  morning,  early,  he  was  at  Mademoiselle 
Quinault's  door.  "  Have  you  spoken  to  Destouches  of  '  The 
Prodigal  Son  '  ?  "  She  had  not.  He  drew  from  his  pocket 
the  plan  of  a  comedy  upon  the  subject,  which  she  approved, 
and  urged  him  to  complete.  Mindful,  it  may  be,  of  his  Pe- 
ruvian adventure,  he  imposed  absolute  secrecy  as  to  the  au- 
thorship, and  afterwards  devised  the  little  scheme  of  substi- 
tuting the  comedy  for  the  tragedy. 

We  see  by  his  letters  of  this  time  that  he  was  more  intent 
upon  the  success  of  his  scheme  of  concealment  than  he  was 
upon  the  success  of  the  play.  Two  passages  from  these  let- 
ters have  been  frequently  quoted  against  him,  and  they  are 
in  truth  characteristic,  and  could  not  be  fairly  omitted.  To 
one  intimate  friend,  M.  Berger,  who  was  in  the  secret,  he 
wrote  thus :  "  You  can  assure  MM.  La  Roque  and  Prevost 
[editors]  that  I  am  not  the  author  of  the  play.  Get  them 
to  publish  a  statement  to  this  effect    in  their  periodicals,  in 

case  it  should   be  necessary If  by  chance   the   secret 

of  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  escapes,  swear  always  that  I  am  not 
the  author.  To  lie  for  a  friend  is  friendship's  first  duty." 
Three  days  after  he  wrote  thus  to  Thieriot :  "  Lying  is  a 
vice  only  when  it  does  harm  ;  it  is  a  very  great  virtue  when 
it  does  good.  Be,  then,  more  virtuous  than  ever.  It  is  nec- 
essary to  lie  like  a  devil ;  not  timidly,  not  for  a  time,  but 
boldly  and  always.  What  does  it  matter  that  this  censorious 
public  should  know  whom  to  punish  for  having  put  upon 
the  stage  a  Croupillac  ?  Let  it  hiss  her  if  she  has  no  merit, 
but  let  the  author  remain  unknown,   I  conjure  you,  in  the 


340  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

name  of  the  tender  friendship  which  has  united  us  for  twenty 
years."  This  we  might  accept,  if  he  had  only  hiid  down  an 
infallible  rule,  adapted  to  average  human  capacity,  for  distin- 
guishing between  lies  that  do  good  and  lies  that  do  hai'm. 

These  plays,  these  poems,  these  treatises  upon  the  problems 
of  life  and  destiny,  were  not  all  the  literary  work  done  by 
him  in  these  years.  His  favorite  scheme  was  still  the  history 
of  the  reign  of  Louis  XlV.,  which  he  meant  to  write  on  a 
system  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  verse :  that  of  dwelling 
upon  things  of  j-eal  and  lasting  importance,  and  passing  as 
lightly  as  possible  over  wars,  quarrels,  controversies,  and  con- 
quests. His  letters  on  this  subject  show  him  in  a  different 
light  from  that  cast  by  those  just  quoted.  Here  he  is  the 
faithful  servant  of  truth.  To  the  same  Thieriot,  as  to  many 
others,  he  writes  thus  on  the  plan  and  spirit  of  this  long-pro- 
jected work :  — 

"  When  I  asked  you  for  anecdotes  upon  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV.,  it  was  less  upon  the  king  himself  than  the  arts  which 
flourished  in  his  reign.  I  should  prefer  details  relating  to  Ra- 
cine and  Boileau,  to  Quinault,  Sully,  Moliere,  Lebrun,  Bos- 
suet,  Poussin,  Descartes,  and  others,  than  to  the  battle  of 
Steinkerque.  Nothing  but  a  name  remains  of  those  who  com- 
manded battalions  and  fleets  ;  nothing  results  to  the  human  race 
from  a  hundred  battles  gained;  but  the  great  men  of  whom 
I  have  spoken  prepared  pure  and  durable  delights  for  genera- 
tions unborn.  A  canal  that  connects  two  seas,  a  picture  by 
Poussin,  a  beautiful  tragedy,  a  discovered  truth,  are  things 
a  thousand  times  more  precious  than  all  the  annals  of  the 
court,  than  all  the  narratives  of  war.  You  know  that  with 
me  great  men  rank  first ;  heroes  last.  I  call  great  men  all 
those  who  have  excelled  in  the  useful  or  the  agreeable.  The 
ravagers  of  provinces  are  mere  heroes." 

The  true  Voltaire  speaks  in  these  lines ;  it  was  so  that  he 
felt  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

Two  of  the  forty  arm-chairs  of  the  French  Academy  fell 
vacant  this  year.  The  author  of  "  Alzire  "  was  not  thought 
of  as  a  candidate  for  either  of  them.  He  did  not  even  regard 
himself  as  an  available  candidate ;  and  the  reason  was  plain 
enough  to  the  literary  caf^s  of  the  capital.  The  same  cafes 
soon  knew  why  the  author  of  "  The  Prodigal  Son "  had  so 


LITERARY  WORK   AT   CIREY.  341 

sedulously  concealed  himself ;  or,  as  Madame  du  Chatelet 
expressed  it,  why  that  Prodigal  was  an  orplian.  In  March, 
1736,  he  received  a  letter  from  Jore,  bookseller  of  Rouen, 
bastilled  and  ruined  by  the  English  Letters,  telling  him  that 
the  ministry  was  disposed  to  relent  toward,  him  and  restore 
his  license,  provided  he  would  state  the  whole  truth  respecting 
that  publication.  He  asked  for  particulars,  which  Voltaire 
gave  with  simplicity  and  truth  ;  going  over  the  whole  history 
of  the  work,  from  Thieriot's  taking  it  to  England  to  the 
pirated  Paris  edition,  published  daring  the  author's  absence, 
which  caused  the  arrest  and  ruin  of  Jore  and  his  own  flight 
from  France.  This  letter,  in  which  he  frankly  owned  himself 
the  author  of  the  book,  placed  him  m  the  power  of  Jore,  who 
answered  it  by  demanding  to  be  paid  the  cost  of  the  confis- 
cated edition,  fourteen  hundred  francs.  The  author,  indignant, 
but  alarmed,  hastened  to  Paris,  saw  the  bookseller,  and  denied 
the  justice  of  his  claim,  but  offered  half  the  sum  demanded. 
Jore  refused ;  brought  suit ;  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of 
Desfontaines,  editor  of  a  literary  journal  hostile  to  Voltaire; 
and  published  a  factum^  probably  written  by  Desfontaines, 
in  which  he  gave  a  history  of  his  connection  with  the  poet, 
related  with  highly  effective  perversity.  The  scandal  was 
immense.  Injudicious  friends  advised  compromise  at  any 
cost ;  and,  finally,  the  lieutenant  of  police,  with  the  approval 
of  the  ministry,  decided  the  matter  thus :  Jore's  claim  not 
allowed ;  Voltaire  to  give  him  five  hundred  francs  as  charity 
(aumones).  "It  is  to  sign  my  shame,"  said  Voltaire;  "1 
would  rather  go  on  with  the  suit  than  pay."  But  he  signed 
and  paid,  nevertheless.  A  year  or  two  after,  Jore  confessed 
that  he  had  been  used  and  misled  by  others ;  he  made  profuse 
apologies,  and  drew  a  small  pension  from  Voltaire  as  long  as 
he  lived.  "  The  malice  of  your  enemies,"  said  he,  "  has  only 
served  to  make  me  know  the  goodness  of  your  character."  ^ 

The  effect  upon  the  public  of  this  scandalous  affair  was 
exceedingly  bad.  The  author  labored  under  peculiar  disad- 
vantages, since  he  had  formally  disavowed  the  work,  and  the 
decree  against  him  of  the  parliament  of  Paris  was  still  in 
force.  He  held  his  freedom  on  sufferance.  He  was  in  a 
corner  where  effective  battle  was  impossible,  and  a  thought- 
1  Jore  to  Voltaire,  December  20,  1738.     1  CEuvres,  262. 


842  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

less  public,  imperfectly  informed,  saw  nothing  in  the  matter 
except  a  paltry  squabble  between  a  very  rich  and  a  very  poor 
man  about  a  sum  of  money,  of  no  importance  to  the  one, 
and  of  great  importance  to  the  other.  The  history  of  this 
single  case  suffices  to  refute  the  light  passage  upon  lying  given 
above.  It  is  not  in  mortal  ken  to  discern  what  falsehood  is 
harmless  and  what  falsehood  is  destructive. 

After  wasting  ten  weeks  in  Paris  upon  this  sorry  business, 
he  returned,  in  July,  1736,  to  Cirey,  not  in  the  best  spirits, 
and  well  aware  that  it  would  be  unwise  in  him  to  give  his 
"  Prodigal  Son  "  a  father  of  so  dubious  a  reputation  as  his 
own.  He  saw  the  two  chairs  of  the  Academy  assigned  to  his 
inferiors,  and  he  was  all  too  conscious  that  the  Rousseaus 
and  the  Desfontaines,  the  Jansenists  and  the  bigots  of  his 
world,  did  not  repine  at  the  national  slight  put  upon  him. 


i 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

FREDERIC,  PRINCE  ROYAL  OF  PRUSSIA. 

Consolation  brief  but  keenly  felt  awaited  liim  at  Cirey. 
In  August,  1736,  soon  after  his  return  from  Paris,  a  long  let- 
ter reached  the  chateau,  addressed  to  himself,  and  signed, 
Frederic,  Prince  Royal  of  Prussia.  A  year  or  two  before, 
when  he  was  settling  at  Cirey,  he  had  received  from  the  Duke 
ofJHolstein,  heir  presumptive  of  the  throne  of  Russia,  husband 
of  Catherine  II.,  an  invitation  to  reside  at  the  Russian  capital 
upon  a  revenue  of  ten  thousand  francs  a  year.  He  had  just 
then  come  under  the  spell  of  Madame  du  Chatelet.  "  Per- 
secuted as  I  was,"  he  wrote  to  Thieriot,  "  I  would  not  have 
left  Cirey  for  the  throne  of  Russia  itself."  He  politely  de- 
clined the  offer ;  hoping,  as  he  said,  that  "  the  Keeper  of  the 
Seals  would  less  persecute  a  man  who  refused  such  establish- 
ments in  foreign  countries."  Doubtless,  he  found  means  to 
convey  both  the  information  and  the  hint  to  that  minister. 

The  letter  of  Frederic  was  the  warm  outpouring  of  a  young 
and  generous  heart  toward  the  poet  who  had  given  it  its 
noblest  pleasures,  toward  the  instructor  who  had  nourished 
its  best  aspirations.  The  prince,  then  twenty-four,  had  lived 
through  his  storm  and  stress  period.  The  miseries  and  shames 
brought  upon  his  sister  and  himself  by  the  collision  between 
their  willful,  obstinate  mother  and  their  father's  arbitrary 
disposition,  j)redisposed  to  frenzy  by  alcohol  and  tobacco, 
were  at  an  end.  The  Prince  Royal  was  then  a  married  man, 
living  in  peace  and  dignity  at  a  spacious  and  suitable  house  in 
the  country,  where  he  exercised  his  regiment,  played  the  flute, 
worked  his  air-pump,  read  Voltaire,  and  tried  —  how  hard  he 
tried  !  —  to  write  such  French  verses  as  Voltaire  wrote.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  sending  letters  to  the  French  authors,  to 
whom  he  had  owed  much  of  the  alleviation  of  his  hard  lot ; 
and  now  he  wrote  to  Voltaire,  to  whom  he  felt  that  he  owed 


344  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

most.  Here  is  the  first  of  his  letters,  entire,  —  the  first  of  a 
correspondence  that  inckides  about  five  hundred  letters,  and 
lasted,  with  occasional  interruptions,  for  forty-two  years,  even 
to  the  last  weeks  of  Voltaire's  life  :  — 

[August  8,  1736.]  "  Monsieur,  although  I  have  not  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  you  personally,  you  are  not  the  less  known  to  me  by  your 
works.  They  are  treasures  of  the  mind,  if  one  may  so  express  him- 
self, composed  of  pieces  wrought  with  so  much  taste,  delicacy,  and 
art  that  their  beauties  appear  new  every  time  they  are  read.  I  be- 
lieve I  have  discerned  in  them  the  character  of  their  gifted  author, 
who  does  honor  to  our  age  and  to  the  human  intellect.  Great  mod- 
erns will  one  day  owe  it  to  you,  and  to  you  alone,  in  case  the  dispute 
whether  the  preference  is  due  to  them  or  the  ancients  is  ever  renewed, 
that  the  balance  will  incline  to  their  side. 

"  You  add  to  the  quality  of  excellent  poet  an  infinitude  of  other 
kinds  of  knowledge,  which,  in  truth,  have  some  affinity  with  poetry, 
but  which  have  not  been  treated  poetically,  except  by  your  pen. 
Never  did  poet  before  set  to  music  metaphysical  thoughts  ;  the  honor 
of  having  done  so  first  was  reserved  for  you.  It  is  the  taste  you 
show  in  your  writings  for  philosophy  that  induces  me  to  seud  you 
the  translation  I  have  made  of  the  indictment  and  defense  of  J.  M. 
Wolf,  the  most  celebrated  philosopher  of  our  day,  who,  for  having 
carried  the  light  into  the  darkest  places  cf  metaphysics,  and  for  hav- 
ing treated  those  difficult  matters  in  a  style  as  lofty  as  it  is  precise 
and  clear,  is  cruelly  accused  of  irreligion  and  atheism.  Such  is  the 
destiny  of  great  men  ;  their  superior  genius  always  exposes  them  to 
the  envenomed  darts  of  calumny  and  euvy. 

"  I  am  at  present  having  translated  the  '  Treatise  upon  God,  the 
Soul,  and  the  World,'  from  the  same  author.  I  shall  send  the  work 
to  you,  monsieur,  as  soon  as  it  is  finished  ;  and  I  am  sure  that  the 
force  of  the  reasoning  will  strike  you  in  all  his  propositions,  which 
follow  one  another  geometrically,  and  are  joined  like  the  links  of  a 
chain. 

"  The  kindness  and  support  you  bestow  upon  all  who  devote  them- 
selves to  the  arts  and  sciences  make  me  hope  that  you  will  not  ex- 
clude me  from  the  number  of  those  whom  you  find  worthy  of  your 
instruction  ;  for  thus  I  name  your  correspondence,  which  cannot  but 
be  profitable  to  every  thinking  being.  I  dare  even  to  go  so  far  as  to 
say,  without  derogating  from  the  merits  of  others,  that  in  the  entire 
universe  there  are  no  individuals  of  whom  you  could  not  be  the  in- 
structor. Without  lavishing  upon  you  incense  unworthy  to  be  offered 
you,  I  can  say  that  I  find  beauties  without  number  in  your  works. 


FREDEEIC,  PRINCE  ROYAL  OF  PRUSSIA.  345 

Your  '  Henriade '  charms  me,  and  triumphs  happily  over  the  ill-judo-ed 
criticism  wliich  has  been  made  upon  it.  The  tragedy  of  '  Caesar'  ex- 
hibits to  us  characters  well  sustained ;  the  sentiments  of  the  play  are 
all  magnificent  and  grand  ;  and  we  feel  that  Brutus  is  either  Roman 
or  English.  '  Alzire'  adds  to  the  charm  of  novelty  a  happy  contrast 
between  the  manners  of  savages  and  Europeans.  You  show  by  the 
character  of  Gasman  that  Christianity,  ill  understood  and  guided  by 
false  zeal,  renders  men  more  barbarous  and  more  cruel  than  paganism 
itself. 

"  Corneille,  the  great  Corneille,  he  who  drew  to  himself  the  ad- 
miration of  his  whole  period,  if  he  were  to  return  to  life  in  our 
days,  would  see  with  astonishment,  and  perhaps  with  envy,  that  the 
tragic  Muse  lavishes  upon  you  the  favors  of  which  she  was  miserly 
towards  him.  What  may  we  not  expect  from  the  author  of  so  many 
masterpieces !  What  new  marvels  may  not  come  from  the  pen 
wliich  once  delineated,  with  so  much  spirit  and  elegance,  the  '  Tem- 
ple of  Taste ' ! 

"  This  it  is  which  makes  me  desire  so  ardently  to  possess  all  your 
works.  I  pray  you,  monsieur,  to  send  them  to  me,  and  to  communi- 
cate them  without  reserve.  If  among  your  manuscripts  there  is  one 
which,  from  necessary  prudence,  you  deem  it  best  to  conceal  from  the 
eyes  of  the  public,  I  promise  to  keep  it  inviolably  secret,  and  to  be 
content  with  applauding  it  myself.  I  know,  unhappily,  that  the  faith 
of  princes  is  a  thing  little  respectable  in  our  time  ;  but  I  hope,  nev- 
ertheless, that  you  will  not  allow  yourself  to  be  possessed  by  a  gen- 
eral prejudice,  and  that  you  will  make  an  exception  in  my  favor. 

"  I  shall  believe  myself  richer  in  having  your  works  than  in  the 
possession  of  all  the  transient  and  contemptible  gifts  of  fortune,  which 
the  same  chance  gives  and  takes  away.  One  can  render  your  works 
his  own  by  the  aid  of  memory,  and  they  will  last  as  long  as  memory 
itself.  Knowing  the  imperfection  of  mine,  I  hesitate  long  before 
making  choice  of  the  things  which  I  judge  worthy  to  place  in  it. 

"  If  ijoetry  were  still  upon  its  old  footing,  —  that  is  to  say,  if  poets 
knew  only  how  to  trill  tedious  idyls,  eclogues  cast  in  the  same  moulds, 
insipid  stanzas,  or,  at  their  highest  flight,  to  chant  an  elegy,  I  should 
renounce  it  forever ;  but  you  ennoble  that  art ;  you  show  us  new 
paths  and  routes  unknown  to  the  Lefrancs  and  the  Rousseaus. 

"  Your  poems  have  qualities  which  render  them  respectable,  and 
worthy  the  admiration  and  study  of  honest  people.  They  form  a 
course  of  morals  wherein  one  can  learn  to  think  and  to  act.  Virtue 
is  painted  therein  in  the  most  beautiful  colors.  The  idea  of  true 
glory  is  clearly  defined  in  them  ;  and  you  insiimate  a  taste  for  the 
sciences  in  a  manner  so  fine  and  so  delicate  that  whoever  has  read 


346  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

your  works  cherishes  the  ambition  to  follow  your  footsteps.  How 
many  times  have  I  not  said  to  myself,  '  Unhappy  man,  lay  down  a 
burden  the  weight  of  which  is  beyond  your  strength  ;  no  one  can 
imitate  Voltaire  unless  it  be  Voltaire  himself  '  ! 

"  At  such  moments  I  have  felt  that  the  advantages  of  birth,  and 
the  halo  of  grandeur  so  flattering  to  our  vanity,  are  things  of  very 
small  account,  or,  in  truth,  of  no  account  at  all.  They  are  distinc- 
tions foreign  to  ourselves,  which  adorn  only  the  exterior.  How  far 
preferable  to  them  are  mental  gifts  !  What  do  we  not  owe  to  per- 
sons whom  Nature  herself  has  distinguished  by  merely  making  them 
what  they  are !  She  pleases  herself  in  forming  some  men  whom  she 
endows  with  all  the  capacity  necessary  for  carrying  forward  the  arts 
and  sciences  ;  and  it  is  for  princes  to  recompense  their  toils.  Ah, 
would  that  it  might  fall  to  my  lot  to  crown  your  triumphs  with  the 
glory  they  merit !  I  should  only  fear  that  this  country,  not  fertile  in 
laurel,  would  not  furnish  as  much  as  your  works  deserve. 

"  If  my  destiny  does  not  favor  me  so  far  as  to  enable  me  to  pos- 
sess you,  I  can  at  least  hope  some  day  to  see  one  whom  I  have  ad- 
mired so  long  and  from  so  great  a  distance,  and  to  assure  you  with 
the  living  voice  that  I  am,  with  all  the  esteem  and  the  considera- 
tion due  to  those  who,  following  the  torch  of  truth,  consecrate  their 
labors  to  the  public  weal,  monsieur,  your  affectionate  friend, 

"  Frederic,  Prince  Royal  of  Prussia." 

The  arrival  of  this  letter  was  well  timed  to  enhance  its  ef- 
fect. Eulogium  of  this  kind  had  been  familiar  to  him  from 
his  youth,  and  even  eulogium  from  princes ;  but  this  prince 
was  about  to  reign  !  He  was  to  reign  over  a  country  in  close 
proximity  to  France,  and  no  Keeper  of  the  Seals  could  choose 
to  disregard  him.  His  "  ogre  of  a  father,"  as  Madame  du 
Chatelet  was  pleased  to  style  the  Prussian  king,  was  not  a 
"  good  life,"  with  his  deep  drinking,  his  tobacco  parliament, 
and  his  explosions  of  drunken  fury.  The  time  was  obviously 
not  distant  when  the  guard  of  four  thousand  giants  would  be 
disbanded,  and  a  prince  ascend  the  throne  who  would  at  once 
begin  a  millennium  in  Prussia  that  might  spread  over  Europe. 
So  thought  Voltaire,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  hour.  What 
princes  he  had  seen  in  his  own  country !  How  insensible  to 
the  true  glory  of  rulers !  A  regent  of  France  had  shut  him  up 
in  the  Bastille  for  eleven  months  upon  a  groundless  charge ;  a 
Duke  of  Bourbon  had  seen  him  imprisoned  and  exiled  for  a 
happy  and  just  repartee  ;  the  present  king  had  not  recognized 


FREDEEIC,  PRINCE  ROYAL  OF  PRUSSLA..  347 

his  existence,  and  allowed  his  best  works  to  be  put  under  ban. 
At  the  very  moment  when  this  letter  was  placed  in  his  hands 
he  was  not,  as  we  shall  see  in  a  moment,  safe  in  his  bed,  and 
he  owed  his  late  impunity,  not  to  any  merit  of  his  own,  but, 
as  a  minister  had  recently  said,  "to  the  respect  felt  by  the  ad- 
ministration for  "  the  family  that  gave  him  an  asylum^  Vol- 
taire re]3lied  thus  to  the  Prince  Royal :  — 

[August  26,  1736.]  "  Monseigneur,  I  should  be  wanting  in  sensi- 
bility not  to  be  infinitely  touched  by  the  letter  with  which  your  Royal 
Highness  has  deigned  to  honor  me.  My  self-love  was  too  much  flat- 
tered by  it ;  but  my  love  for  the  human  race,  whicli  I  have  always 
had  at  heart,  and  which  I  venture  to  say  makes  my  character,  gave 
me  a  pleasure  a  thousand  times  purer  when  I  discovered  that  there  is 
in  the  world  a  prince  who  thinks  like  a  man,  a  prince  philosopher, 
who  will  render  men  happy. 

"  Permit  me  to  say  to  you  that  there  is  not  a  man  on  earth  who 
does  not  owe  you  grateful  homage  for  the  care  you  take  to  cultivate 
by  sound  philosophy  a  soul  born  to  command.  Be  sure  that  there 
have  been  no  truly  good  kings  except  those  who  have  begun,  like  you, 
by  instructing  themseh^es,  by  knowing  men,  by  loving  the  truth,  by 
detesting  persecution  and  superstition.  There  is  no  prince  who,  being 
thus  formed,  could  not  bring  back  the  age  of  gold  to  his  states.  Why 
do  so  few  kings  seek  this  advantage  ?  You  know,  Monseigneur  :  it  is 
because  almost  all  of  them  think  more  of  royalty  than  of  humanity. 
You  do  precisely  the  contrary.  Rely  upon  it,  if  one  day  the  tumult 
of  business  and  the  wickedness  of  men  do  not  alter  so  divine  a  charac- 
ter, you  will  be  adored  by  your  jieople  and  beloved  by  the  whole 
world.  Philosophers  worthy  of  the  name  will  fly  to  your  dominions ; 
and,  as  celebrated  artisans  go  in  crowds  to  the  country  where  their  art 
is  most  esteemed,  men  who  think  will  go  to  gather  about  your 
throne. 

"The  illustrious  Queen  Christina  left  her  kingdom  to  go  in  quest  of 
the  arts ;  reign,  Monseigneur,  and  the  arts  will  go  in  quest  of  you. 

"  May  you  never  be  disgusted  with  the  sciences  by  the  quarrels  of 
the  learned  !  You  see,  Monseigneur,  by  the  very  things  you  deign  to 
send  me,  that  they  are  men,  for  the  most  part,  like  courtiers  them- 
selves. They  are  sometimes  as  selfish,  as  intriguing,  as  false,  as  cruel ; 
and  all  the  difference  between  the  pests  of  the  court  and  the  pests  of 
the  schools  is  that  the  latter  are  the  more  ridiculous. 

"  It  is  very  sad  for  humanity  that  those  who  claim  to  declare  the 
commands  of  Heaven,  to  be  the  interpreters  of  the  Divinity,  —  in  one 
word,  the  theologians,  —  are  sometimes  the  most  dangerous  of  all ;  that 


348  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

there  should  be  some  among  them  who  are  as  pernicious  to  society  as 
they  are  obscure  in  their  ideas ;  and  that  their  souls  should  be  swollen 
with  bitterness  and  pride  in  proportion  as  they  are  empty  of  truth. 
They  would  be  willing  to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  earth  for  a  sophism, 
and  would  interest  all  kings  to  avenge  by  sword  and  fire  the  honor  of 
an  argument  in  ferio  or  in  barbara. 

"  Every  thinking  being  who  is  not  of  their  opinion  is  an  atheist ; 
and  every  king  who  does  not  favor  them  will  be  damned.  You  know, 
Monseigneur,  that  the  best  course  one  can  take  is  to  abandon  to  them- 
selves those  pretended  preceptors  and  real  enemies  of  the  human  race. 
Their  words,  when  they  are  disregarded,  are  lost  in  the  air  like  the 
wind ;  but  if  the  weight  of  authority  is  enlisted  in  their  support,  that 
wind  acquires  a  force  which  sometimes  overturns  the  throne. 

"  I  see,  Monseigneur,  with  the  natural  joy  of  a  heart  filled  with  love 
for  the  public  good,  the  immense  distance  which  you  put  between  men 
who  peacefully  seek  the  truth  and  those  who  wish  to  go  to  war  for 
words  which  they  do  not  understand.  I  see  that  the  Newtons,  the 
Leibnitz,  the  Bayles,  the  Lockes,  souls  so  elevated,  so  enlightened, 
and  so  gentle,  are  those  who  nourish  your  spirit,  and  that  you  reject 
other  sham  aliment  which  you  find  poisoned  or  without  substance. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank  your  Eoyal  Highness  enough  for 
your  goodness  in  sending  me  the  little  book  concerning  M.  Wolf.  I 
regard  his  metaphysical  ideas  as  doing  honor  to  the  human  intellect. 
They  are  flashes  in  the  midst  of  profound  night,  which,  I  believe,  is 
all  we  can  hope  from  metaphysics.  There  is  no  appearance  that  the 
first  principles  of  things  will  ever  be  well  understood.  The  mice 
which  inhabit  some  little  holes  of  an  immense  building  know  not  if 
that  building  is  eternal,  nor  who  was  its  architect,  nor  why  that  ar- 
chitect built.  They  try  to  preserve  their  lives,  to  people  their  holes, 
and  to  escape  the  destructive  animals  that  pursue  them.  We  are 
mice,  and  the  divine  architect  who  has  built  this  universe  has  not  yet, 
as  far  as  I  know,  told  his  secret  to  any  of  us.  If  any  one  might  pre- 
tend to  divine  the  truth,  it  is  M.  Wolf.  He  may  be  combated,  but 
he  must  be  esteemed.  His  philosophy  is  very  far  from  being  perni- 
cious ;  there  is  nothing  in  it  more  beautiful  or  more  true  than  his  re- 
mark that  men  ought  to  be  just,  though  even  they  should  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  atheists. 

"  The  protection  which,  it  seems,  you  give,  Monseigneur,  to  that 
learned  man  is  a  proof  at  once  of  your  justice  and  your  humanity. 

"  You  have  the  goodness,  Monseigneur,  to  promise  to  send  me  the 
'  Treatise  upon  God,  the  Soul,  and  the  World.'  What  a  present, 
Monseigneur,  and  what  a  transaction  !  The  heir  of  a  monarchy  deigns, 
from  the  recesses   of  his   palace,  to  send  instruction  to  a  hermit  I 


FREDERIC,  PRINCE  ROYAL  OF  PRUSSIA.  849 

Deign  to  make  me  this  present,  Mouseigneur ;  my  extreme  love  for  the 
truth  is  the  only  thing  which  renders  me  worthy  of  it.  Most  princes 
dread  to  hear  the  truth,  and  you  will  teach  it. 

"  With  regard  to  the  verses  of  which  you  speak  to  me,  you  think 
upon  that  art  as  sensibly  as  upon  all  the  rest.  Verses  which  do  not 
teach  men  new  and  affecting  truths  little  deserve  to  be  read.  You 
feel  that  there  would  be  nothing  more  contemptible  than  to  pass  one's 
life  in  putting  into  rhyme  stale  commonplaces  which  do  not  merit  the 
name  of  thoughts.  If  there  is  anything  lower  than  that,  it  is  to  be 
nothing  but  a  satirical  poet,  and  write  only  to  decry  others.  Such 
poets  are  to  Parnassus  what  those  doctors  are  to  the  schools  who  are 
acquainted  only  with  words,  and  cabal  against  men  who  write  things. 

"  If  the  '  Henriade '  has  not  displeased  your  Royal  Highness,  I 
ought  to  thank  for  it  the  love  of  truth  my  poem  inspires,  and  the 
horror  for  the  factious,  for  persecutors,  for  the  superstitious,  for  ty- 
rants, and  for  rebels.  It  is  the  work  of  an  honest  man  ;  it  ought  to 
find  favor  with  a  prince  philosopher. 

"  You  order  me  to  send  you  my  other  works.  I  shall  obey  you, 
Monseigneiir  ;  you  shall  be  my  judge,  and  you  shall  stand  to  me  in 
lieu  of  the  public.  I  shall  submit  to  you  what  I  have  hazarded  in 
philosophy  ;  your  luminous  comments  will  be  my  recompense;  it  is  a 
reward  that  few  sovereigns  can  give.  I  am  sure  of  your  secrecy  ; 
your  virtue,  I  do  not  doubt,  equals  your  knowledge. 

"  I  should  regard  it  as  a  very  great  good  fortune  to  be  able  to  pay 
my  court  to  your  Royal  Highness.  We  go  to  Rome  to  see  churches, 
pictures,  ruins,  and  bas-reliefs.  A  prince  like  you  deserves  a  journey 
much  better  ;  it  is  a  rarity  more  marvelous.  But  friendship,  which 
retains  me  in  the  retreat  where  I  am,  does  not  permit  me  to  leave  it. 
You  think,  without  doubt,  like  Julian,  that  great  man  so  calumniated, 
who  said  that  friends  ought  always  to  be  preferred  to  kings. 

"  In  whatever  corner  of  the  world  I  finish  my  life,  be  sure,  Mon- 
seigneur,  that  I  shall  continue  to  make  vows  for  you  ;  that  is  to  say, 
for  the  happiness  of  a  whole  people.  My  heart  will  be  ranked  among 
your  subjects  ;  your  glory  always  will  be  dear  to  me.  Bly  wish  will 
be  that  you  may  always  resemble  yourself,  and  that  the  other  kings 
may  resemble  you.  I  am,  with  profound  respect,  of  your  Royal  High- 
ness, the  very  humble  Voltaire." 

The  prince  replied  with  a  promptitude  and  at  a  length  that 
might  have  alarmed  a  less  busy  man  than  Voltaire.  This  sec- 
ond letter  would  fill  about  ten  of  these  pages.  Voltaire  re- 
sponded by  dedicating  to  Frederic  a  poem  on  the  "  Use  of 
Science  by  Princes,"  of  which   he  sent   him  a  copy.     The 


350  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Prince  Royal,  in  return,  gave  his  beloved  poet  a  cane,  the  head 
of  which  was  a  golden  bust  of  Socrates,  and,  ere  the  year  was 
out,  plucked  up  courage  to  send  a  specimen  of  his  French 
verse,  addressed  to  Voltaire  ;  receiving  in  return  manuscripts 
of  great  pith  and  moment,  one  a  "  Dissertation  on  the  Soul," 
afterwards  amplified  for  the  "  Philosophical  Dictionary."  The 
correspondents  grew  ever  fonder.  Voltaire  "  sheds  tears  of 
joy  "  on  receiving  the  long  letter  mentioned  above.  Frederic, 
on  his  part,  is  thrown  into  such  an  agitation  by  the  arrival  of 
a  letter  from  Cirey  that  hours  pass  before  he  is  calm  enough 
to  gather  its  full  meaning. 

"  Towards  the  hour  [he  wrote  in  1737]  when  the  post  usu- 
ally arrives,  all  my  servants  are  out  on  the  road  to  bring  me 
my  packet.  Impatience  immediately  seizes  me,  also  ;  I  run  to 
the  window,  and  then,  tired  of  seeing  nothing  come,  I  return 
to  my  usual  occupations.  If  I  hear  a  noise  in  the  antecham- 
ber, I  am  there  !  '  Ah,  what  is  it  ?  Give  me  my  letters  !  No 
neivs?^  My  imagination  far  outstrips  the  courier.  At  last, 
after  such  proceedings  have  continued  some  hours,  behold,  my 
letters  arrive  !  I  break  the  seals.  I  look  for  your  writing 
(often  in  yain),  and,  when  I  perceive  it,  my  agitation  hinders 
me  from  breaking  the  seal.  I  read,  but  so  fast  that  I  am 
obliged  sometimes  to  read  the  letter  three  times  over  before 
my  mind  is  calm  enough  to  understand  what  I  have  read ;  and 
it  happens,  even,  that  I  do  not  succeed  until  the  next  day." 

He  might  well  make  the  last  statement,  for  one  of  Voltaire's 
letters,  to  which  the  above  was  a  reply,  fills  twenty-seven  large 
printed  pages,  and  contained  a  metaphysical  discourse  upon 
the  question  of  Liberty  and  Necessity.  Soon  there  was  an  in- 
terchange of  civilities  and  letters  between  Madame  du  Chate- 
let  and  the  prince,  which  continued  as  long  as  she  lived.  Soon 
Thieriot  was  appointed  to  write  for  the  prince  an  occasional 
letter  of  literary  news  from  Paris,  a  duty  ill  performed  by  that 
idle  and  luxurious  parasite.  During  1737  the  prince's  letters 
came  pretty  regularly  to  the  chateau  once  a  month ;  in  1738 
he  wrote  seventeen  times  ;  in  1740,  the  year  of  his  accession, 
twenty-seven  times. 

Such  a  correspondence  could  not  remain  a  secret.  Thieriot 
was  before  long  enabled  to  show  to  the  illustrious  suppei'-tables 
of  Paris  a  copy  of  "  a  very  curious  letter  "  which  the  Prince 


TREDEEIC,  PRINCE   ROYAL   OF  PRUSSIA.  851 

Royal  of  Prussia  (the  prince,  you  know,  who  came  near  hav- 
ing his  head  cut  off  by  his  ogre  of  a  father,  a  few  years  since) 
had  lately  written  to  Voltaire.  All  Europe  soon  heard  of  it. 
The  gazettes,  even,  presumed  to  mention  it.  A  Holland  paper 
stated  that  the  golden  head  of  the  cane  sent  to  the  poet  was 
"  a  portrait  of  the  prince."  "  Was  it,  indeed  ?  "  asks  Vol- 
taire. "No,"  replied  Frederic;  "  my  portrait  is  neither  good- 
looking  enough  nor  rare  enough  for  me  to  give  you.  It  is  of 
Socrates,  who  was  to  Greece  less  than  you  are  to  Fi-ance." 

Voltaire,  we  must  own,  meant  to  get  from  this  correspond- 
ence all  the  sup^^ort  it  could  furnish  against  the  powers  that 
kept  the  key  of  the  Bastille  and  could  drive  him  from  his 
home  and  country  without  a  moment's  warning.  At  the  same 
time,  he  fulfilled,  to  the  very  best  of  his  ability  and  light, 
the  duty,  the  opportunity,  which  had  fallen  in  his  way,  of 
influencing  a  mind  destined  to  rule  a  country.  He  spared 
no  toil  to  give  this  young  man  the  best  he  had.  Both  were 
under  ilkision.  Frederic  had  seen  beautiful  works  in  a  gal- 
lery, and  seen  them  with  the  adoring  rapture  of  ingenuous 
youth  ;  but  the  artist  —  with  a  smudge  of  clay  upon  his  nose, 
with  his  indigestions,  irritabilities,  servilities,  vanities,  and  all 
the  cat;ilogue  of  his  human  foibles  and  frailties  —  he  had  not 
seen.  Nor  did  Voltaire  yet  know  how  much  more  a  kingdom 
governs  a  king  than  a  king  governs  a  kingdom.  Hence  both 
were  destined  to  some  disenchantment. 

Voltaire  was  beginning  to  have  his  corps  of  young  disciples, 
—  known  to  him  and  unknown,  — who  were,  by  and  by,  to  ex- 
tend liis  influence.  Many  young  men  in  Europe,  and,  here 
and  there,  one  or  two  in  Virginia,  Maryland,  Massachusetts, 
and  Pennsylvania,  felt  towards  him  very  much  as  Frederic  of 
Prussia  felt.  Never  was  there  such  an  untiring  and  dexterous 
sower  of  seed  ;  and  now  the  seed  was  sprouting  in  many  parts 
of  the  field.  He  berated  his  young  friends  soundly  when  he 
thought  they  deserved  it,  especially  the  idle  and  neglectful. 
His  patience  with  such  was  amazing  in  so  impatient  a  man  ; 
and  even  when  he  had  exhausted  every  means  of  rousing 
them  to  exertion  he  could  not  cast  them  off  ;  or,  if  he  did, 
was  swift  to  welcome  them  again  on  the  least  sign  of  im- 
provement. Note  these  few  sentences  from  his  letters  of  this 
period  :  — 


852  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

[To  Thieriot.]  "  Yes  ;  I  will  scold  you  till  I  have  cured  you  of 
your  indolence.  You  live  as  if  man  had  been  created  only  to  sup ; 
and  you  exist  only  between  ten  p.  M.  and  two  a.  m.  When  you  are 
old  and  abandoned,  will  it  be  a  consolation  to  you  to  say,  '  Formerly 
I  drank  champagne  in  good  company '  ?  " 

[To  Cideville.]  "  Tell  Linant  to  be  modest,  humble,  and  service- 
able. Your  applause  and  friendship  have  been  a  sweet  poison  that 
has  turned  his  head.  Me  he  hates,  because  I  have  spoken  frankly  to 
him.     Deserve  his  hatred  in  your  turn,  or  he  is  lost." 

[To  Helvetius,  young  author.]  "  It  costs  you  nothing  to  think,  but 
it  costs  infinitely  to  write.  I  therefore  preach  to  you  eternally  that 
art  of  writing  which  Boileau  has  so  well  known  and  so  well  taught: 
that  respect  for  the  language,  that  connection  and  sequence  of  ideas, 
that  air  of  ease  with  which  he  conducts  his  readers,  tliat  naturalness 
which  is  the  fruit  of  art,  and  that  appearance  of  facility  which  is 
due  to  toil  alone.  A  word  out  of  place  spoils  the  most  beautiful 
thought." 

[To  Helvetius.]  "  Do  you  wish  an  infallible  little  rule  for  verse  ? 
Here  it  is  :  See  if  your  thought,  as  you  have  written  it  in  verse,  is 
beautiful  in  prose  also." 

[To  a  young  poet  without  fortune.]     "  Think  first  to  improve  your 
.circumstances.     First  live  ;  then  compose." 

[To  Thieriot.]  "  I  envy  the  beasts  two  things,  —  their  ignorance 
of  evil  to  come,  and  their  ignorance  of  what  is  said  of  them." 

[To  Frederic]  "  Learned  men  there  will  always  be  at  Berlin  ;  but 
men  of  genius,  men  who  in  communicating  their  soul  render  others 
wise,  these  elder  sons  of  Prometheus  who  go  about  distributing  the 
celestial  fire  among  ill-organized  masses,  —  of  these  there  will  always 
be  very  few  in  any  country." 

[To  Helvetius.]  "  The  body  of  an  athlete  and  the  soul  of  a  sage, 
—  these  are  what  we  require  to  be  happy." 

[To  Maupertuis,  invited  to  Prussia.]  "  It  is  a  beautiful  age,  this, 
when  men  of  letters  hesitate  to  repair  to  the  courts  of  kings ;  but  if 
they  do  not  hesitate,  the  age  will  be  much  more  beautiful." 

[To  Frederic]  ''  Those  who  say  that  the  fiames  of  religious  wars 
are  extinguished,  pay,  it  seems  to  me,  too  much  honor  to  human  nat- 
ure. The  same  poison  still  subsists,  though  less  developed ;  the  plague 
that  seems  stifled  reproduces  from  time  to  time  germs  capable  of  in- 
fecting the  earth." 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

FLIGHT  INTO  HOLLAND. 

The  pleasant  excitement  caused  by  the  prince's  letter  had 
subsided,  and  life  at  Cirey  was  going  its  usual  course.  The 
marquise  was  still  restoring  parts  of  the  old  chateau  ;  Vol- 
taire was  building  an  annex  for  his  apparatus ;  and  they  were 
rivals  for  the  possession  of  the  workmen.  "  Madame  has 
taken  all  my  men,"  he  complains  sometimes,  impatient  to  get 
his  laboratory  in  working  order.  There  were  periods  of  such 
peaceful,  happy,  and  honorable  labor  during  the  early  years  of 
their  settlement  at  Cirey  that  it  seemed  as  if  their  dream  was 
realized,  and,  unlike  Faust,  they  could  say  to  the  gliding  hour, 
"  Stay,  thou  art  fair  !  " 

The  children  were  occupied  with  their  tutor,  —  good  children, 
Voltaire  assures  us;  the  boy,  afterwards  that  Duke  du  Chate- 
let  who  lost  his  head  imder  the  reign  of  the  guillotine,  was 
now  a  little  scholar  learning  Latin  fables,  enraptured  to  receive 
on  his  birthday  a  silver  watch,  good  or  bad,  that  had  cost  three 
louis  d'or.  The  marquis,  his  father,  when  not  with  his  regi- 
ment, was  hunting,  or  visiting  his  foundries  and  iron  mines, 
or  riding  to  the  neighboring  chateaux  ;  coming  home  with  an 
excellent  appetite  to  eat,  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  eaten,  bestow- 
ing upon  an  intellectual  company  the  favor  of  his  friendly 
departure.  He  is  "  the  worthiest  gentleman  I  ever  knew," 
says  his  wife  in  her  correspondence.  She  invariably  speaks 
of  him  with  respect,  often  with  warm  eulogiuni ;  and  he,  as 
we  are  assured,  was  gratified  at  his  wife's  celebrity. 

Madame  was  almost  as  studious  as  her  friend,  when  there 
were  no  guests  to  entertain  ;  for,  besides  her  geometry,  she 
was  now^  learning  English  and  Italian.  She  was  translating 
Mandeville's  "  Fable  of  the  Bees  ;  "  and  she,  too,  as  well  as 
Voltaire,  was  grappling  with  Pope's  "  Essay  on  Man."  One 
verse  she  remarks,  delighted   her  very  much :    "  An   honest 

VOL.  I.  23 


354  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

man  's  the  noblest  worck  of  God."  This  she  thought  exceed- 
ingly fine  ;  but  there  was  a  couplet  in  the  same  book  which, 
she  says,  shocked  Voltaire  :  — 

"  All  reason's  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  sense, 
Lie  in  three  words,  —  health,  peace,  and  competence." 

These  lines  omitted  love.  "  Pope  is  to  be  pitied,"  says  Vol- 
taire, in  an  epigram  suggested  by  the  passage  ;  "  he  is  neither 
happy  nor  wise."  Madame  was  all  enthusiasm  for  England 
and  the  English.  She  intended  to  visit  that  home  of  freedom 
as  soon  as  she  had  devised  a  pretext ;  for,  as  she  remarks,  the 
marquis,  one  of  the  best  of  men,  would  not  understand  her 
real  reason  for  going,  which  was  simply  to  instruct  herself. 
"  You  have  seen  the  '  Julius  Csesar '  of  Shakespeare,"  she 
writes  to  Algarotti,  in  England  ;  "  you  are  going  to  see  '  On- 
fort '  and  '  Blenkeim  ; '  and,  what  is  still  better,  you  see  men 
worthy  to  associate  with  you."  She  quotes  with  approbation 
two  lines  of  Hervey  :  — 

"  0  freedom,  benefactress  fair, 
How  happy  who  thy  blessings  share  !  " 

For  a  year  or  more  she  was  blessed  in  being  able  to  render 
Voltaire  important  aid  in  a  work  near  his  heart.  In  the  au- 
tumn of  1735,  Algarotti,  a  young  Italian  who  employed  the 
leisure  that  wealth  gives  in  patriotic  and  intellectual  labors, 
spent  six  weeks  at  Cirey,  where  he  talked  frequently  with  its 
inmates  upon  an  amiable  project  he  had  partly  executed  of 
putting  Newton's  "  Principia "  into  a  series  of  Italian  dia- 
logues for  ladies.  He  read  some  of  the  dialogues  at  Cirey, 
and  Voltaire  applauded  the  scheme,  which  was  completed, 
with  happy  results  to  Italy  and  to  other  countries  ;  for  Alga- 
rotti's  work  was  translated  into  several  languages.  Its  best 
result  was  in  suggesting  to  Voltaire  the  idea  of  doing  for 
France  what  his  young  friend  was  doing  for  Italy.  In  his 
English  Letters  he  had  given  Newton  the  place  of  honor, 
and  this  at  a  time  when  Newton's  philosophy  was  unknown 
to  the  many  and  despised  by  the  few.  Out  of  England  there 
were  not  in  the  world,  probably,  thirty  Newtonians  when 
Voltaire  wrote  upon  Newton  in  his  English  Letters.  He 
determined,  in  1735,  to  write  a  volume,  giving  in  a  clear, 
exact,  but  popular  form,  the  substance  of  Newton's  work, 
which,  being  in  Latin,  and  algebra,  was,  is,  and  will  always 


FLIGHT  INTO   HOLLAm).  355 

remain  inaccessible  except  to  the  learned.  It  was  a  project 
worthy  of  a  patriot  and  a  scholar  thus  to  place  the  best  intel- 
lectual treasure  of  a  foreign  land  within  easy  reach  of  the 
whole  educated  class  of  his  own  ;  and  it  was  peculiarly  Ms 
work  who  felt  that  knowledge  is  the  antidote  to  superstition, 
and  that  superstition  was  poisoning  the  life  of  France. 

From  the  middle  of  1735  to  the  end  of  1736,  Newton  was 
his  principal  task.  "  Thalia,  Thalia,"  he  wrote  from  the 
midst  of  it  to  Mademoiselle  Quinault,  who  was  playing  in  his 
"  Prodigal  Son,"  "  if  I  were  at  Paris,  I  would  work  only  for 
you.  You  would  make  me  an  amphibious  animal,  comic  six 
months  of  the  year,  and  tragic  the  other  six ;  but  there  is  in 
the  world  a  devil  of  a  Newton,  who  has  found  out  how  much 
the  sun  weighs,  and  of  what  color  the  rays  are  which  compose 
light.  This  strange  man  has  turned  my  head."  And  to  his 
ancient  professor,  Abb6  d'Olivet,  in  October,  1736:  "At  pres- 
ent I  am  occupied  in  learning  how  much  the  «un  weighs  ; 
one  folly  the  more.  '  What  does  it  matter,'  you  will  ask, 
'  how  much  it  weighs,  provided  we  enjoy  it  ?  '  Oh,  it  matters 
much  to  us  deep  thinkers,  for  it  relates  to  the  grand  principle 
of  gravitation.  My  dear  friend,  my  dear  master,  Newton  is 
the  greatest  man  that  ever  lived,  —  the  greatest,  I  mean,  as 
the  giants  of  old  are  compared  with  children  who  play  with 
cherry-stones.  Nevertheless,  let  us  not  be  discouraged  ;  let 
us  gather  some  flowers  in  this  world  which  he  measured,  which 
he  weighed,  which  he  alone  knew.  Let  us  sport  under  the 
arms  of  this  Atlas  who  carries  the  sky ;  let  us  compose  dramas, 
odes,  rubbish.  Love  me;  console  me  for  being  so  small. 
Adieu,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  master."  In  this  light,  fa- 
miliar way  he  spoke  of  a  piece  of  work  that  evidently  tasked 
the  united  powers  of  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  himself,  and 
which  filled  months  with  arduous,  fascinating  toil. 

Thus  they  were  employed  at  the  beginning  of  Christmas 
week  in  1736.  The  long  and  honorable  labor  was  substantially 
done ;  only  the  last  two  chapters  being  incomplete.  The 
weather  was  cold  ;  and  Voltaire,  a  chilly  mortal,  from  his 
unceasing,  inordinate  industry,  stirred  seldom  from  the  warmth 
of  the  fire.  He  loved  a  fire.  He  was  a  rare  heaper-on  of 
fuel,  and  visitors  wondered  at  the  number  of  cords  of  wood 
daily  consumed  in  the  vain  attempt  to  warm  the  old  chateau. 


356  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

But  the  poet's  corner  was  warm  and  snug  enough,  and  he 
clung  to  it ;  for  the  earth  was  covered  with  snow,  and  the  air 
was  thick  with  wintry  storm. 

It  was  Saturday,  December  21st,  the  longest  night  of  the 
year.  A  letter  arrives  from  the  "  guardian  angel  "  of  the 
house,  D'Argental,  —  a  letter  of  warning !  The  peace  of  this 
abode  rested  upon  a  promise  which  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals 
had  given  again  and  again  to  the  Duchess  de  Richelieu,  that 
he  would  begin  no  proceeding  against  Voltaire  without  giv- 
ing her  notice.  Notice  had  been  given !  D'Argental  for- 
warded it  swiftly  to  Cirey.  The  pretext  of  the  threatened 
prosecution  seems  to  have  astounded  the  inmates  of  the  chi,- 
teau  even  more  than  the  threat  itself.  It  was  a  merry  poem 
of  a  hundred  and  twenty  lines,  called  "The  Worldling"  (Le 
Mondain),  suggested  by  the  "  Fable  of  the  Bees,"  and  written 
in  the  gay  hours  following  the  success  of  "  Alzire,"  a  few 
months  before.  The  poem  was  a  jovial  explosion  of  anti- 
Pasealism  ;  harmless  if  taken  as  a  joke,  nor  likely  to  be  taken 
otherwise  except  by  a  Tartuffe. 

"  Eegret  who  will  the  good  old  time, 
And  the  age  of  gold,  and  Astrea's  reign. 
And  the  beautiful  days  of  Saturn  and  of  Rhea, 
And  the  garden  of  our  first  parents." 

"  For  my  part,"  continued  the  poet,  "  I  love  luxury  and 
even  softness  [wo??essg],  all  the  pleasures,  all  the  arts,  cleanli- 
ness, taste,  decoration  ;  and  so  does  every  honest  man."  One 
of  the  lines  of  this  poem  has  remained  current  coin  in  France 
ever  since  :  "Le  superflu,  chose  tres  necessaire."^ 

The  offense  of  this  poem  was  supposed  to  lie  in  a  few 
lines  referring  to  the  legend  of  Adam  and  Eve  :  "  My  dear 
Adam,  my  gourmand,  my  good  father,  what  did  you  do  in  the 
garden  of  Eden  ?  Did  you  toil  for  this  stupid  human  race  of 
ours?  Did  you  caress  Madame  Eve,  my  mother  ?  Confess  to 
me  that  both  of  you  had  long  nails,  a  little  black  and  dirty, 
your  hair  slightly  out  of  order,  j^our  complexion  dark,  your 
skin  brown  and  tanned.  Without  decency,  the  most  fortunate 
love  is  love  no  more  ;  it  is  a  shameful  need.  Immediately 
tired  of  one  another,  they  sup  genteelly  under  an  oak  upon 
water,  millet,  and  acorns ;  then  sleep  upon  the  ground.     Such 

1  The  superfluous,  a  thing  very  necessary. 


FLIGHT   INTO   HOLLAND.  357 

is  the  condition  of  man  in  a  state  of  pure  nature."  To  this 
he  contrasts  the  daily  life  of  a  rich  Frenchman  of  that  period, 
to  whom  all  the  arts  ministered,  and  who  enjoyed  the  re- 
fined delights  of  mind,  taste,  and  sense.  The  poem  concludes 
with  a  few  lines  which  utter  the  feelings  of  millions  of  school- 
boys, whose  souls  have  wearied  of  Telemachus  and  never- 
ending  preach  :  ♦'  Now,  Monsieur  Telemachus,  vaunt  as  you 
may  your  little  Ithaca,  where  your  Cretans,  dismally  vir- 
tuous, poor  in  goods,  rich  in  abstinence,  go  without  every- 
thing in  order  to  have  abundance,  I  consent  willingly  to  be 
whipped  within  your  walls  if  ever  I  go  to  seek  there  my  hap- 
piness." 

At  the  instigation  of  Boyer,  preceptor  of  the  dauphin,  a 
priest  whose  name  comes  down  to  us  laden  with  Voltaire's  con- 
temptuous ridicule,  the  aged  Cardinal  de  Fleury  consented  to 
the  prosecution  of  the  author  of  the  "  Mondain."  D'Aro-en- 
tal's  warning  Avas  emphatic  and  urgent.  "  But  for  the  respect 
felt  for  your  Flouse,"  he  said,  "  M.  de  Voltaire  would  long  ago 
have  been  arrested,  and  it  is. now  in  contemplation  to  write  to 
M.  du  Clnitelet,  requesting  that  he  no  longer  give  him  an  asy- 
lum." It  was  this  last  menace  that  threw  the  lady  into  such 
extreme  apprehension,  since  it  threatened  to  put  an  end  to 
their  scheme  of  life.  The  marquis,  true  child  of  his  period, 
had  no  scruples  with  regard  to  the  morality  of  the  situation, 
but  he  would  have  died  for  its  decorums.  Madame  lauohed 
at  the  idea  of  such  extreme  respect  felt  for  their  House,  when 
the  chateau  of  a  Prince  de  Guise  had  not  sufficed  to  protect 
her  poet ;  but  all  the  more  was  she  alarmed  at  a  danger  of 
which  she  knew  not  the  extent,  nor  the  real  cause. 

At  length,  after  agonizing  conflicts  of  feeling,  she  consented 
to  his  temporary  departure.  He  should  at  least  cross  the 
frontier,  and  await  the  development  of  events.  If  the  storm 
blew  over,  he  could  return.  If  not,  he  must  seek  an  abode  in 
some  country  —  England,  Holland,  Prussia  —  wliere  a  poet 
and  philosopher  could  not  be  turned  out  of  his  liome  into  the 
snow  by  a  dull  theologian  ambitious  to  wear  a  red  hat.  It  was 
nine  in  the  evening  when  she  was  brought  to  consent  to  this 
project,  and  they  determined  to  leave  that  very  night;  she  to 
go  with  him  as  far  as  Vassy,  four  miles  off,  the  nearest  village 
where  he  could  get  post-horses.     We  have  the  letter  which  he 


358  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

wrote  to  D' Argental  at  Vassy  early  on  Sunday  morning,  while, 
perhaps,  the  horses  were  harnessmg :  — 

"  Your  friend  cannot  endure  that  I  should  remain  longer  in  a  coun- 
try where  I  am  treated  so  inhumanly.  We  have  left  Cirey ;  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  piorning  we  are  at  Vassy,  where  I  am  to  take  post- 
horses.  But,  my  true,  my  tender  and  honored  friend,  now  that  the 
moment  arrives  when  I  must  separate  myself  forever  from  one  who  has 
done  all  for  me,  —  who  for  me  left  Paris,  left  all  her  friends,  and  all  the 
agreeable  things  of  life,  —  one  whom  I  adore  and  ought  to  adore,  you 
know  what  I  feel ;  the  situation  is  horrible.  I  should  set  out  with  joy 
inexpressible  ;  I  w^ould  go  to  see  the  Prince  of  Prussia,  who  often  in- 
vites me  ;  I  would  put  between  envy  and  me  a  space  so  wide  that  I 
should  be  troubled  by  it  no  more  ;  I  would  live  in  foreign  countries 
like  a  Frenchman  who  will  always  respect  his  own  country  ;  I  should 
be  free,  and  should  not  abuse  my  liberty  ;  I  should  be  the  happiest 
man  in  the  world  ;  but  your  friend  is  before  me  in  a  flood  of  tears. 
My  heart  is  pierced.  Will  it  be  necessary  to  let  her  return  alone  to  a 
chateau  which  she  has  rebuilt  only  for  me,  and  deprive  myself  of  the 
charm  of  my  life,  because  I  have  enemies  at  Paris  ?  It  is,  assuredly, 
to  unite  the  absurdity  of  the  age  of  gold  and  the  barbarity  of  the  age 
of  iron  to  menace  me  for  such  a  work.  If  you  deem  the  storm  too 
violent,  send  us  word  to  the  usual  address,  and  I  shall  continue  my 
journey  ;  if  you  believe  it  calmed,  I  shall  come  to  a  halt.  But  what 
a  frightful  life  !  I  would  rather  die  than  be  eternally  tormented  by 
the  dread  of  losing  my  liberty  upon  the  most  trifling  complaint,  with- 
out form  of  law.     I  submit  all  to  you  ;  see  what  I  ought  to  do." 

They  separated  at  Vassy  on  Sunday  morning ;  he  taking  the 
road  to  Lorraine,  she  returning  to  the  void  and  desolate  chS,- 
teau  at  Cirey.  She  heard  notliing  of  him  until  the  Friday  fol- 
lowing, when  good  news  came.  He  had  reached  the  frontier 
in  safety,  and  had  gone  on  toward  Brussels,  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  distant,  where  he  was  to  be  addressed  as  Monsieur 
Renol,  merchant.  Best  of  all,  his  health  had  not  suffered. 
"His  unfortunate  health,"  wrote  the  marquise  to  D'Argental, 
"  always  supports  journeys  better  than  we  should  dare  hope, 
because  then  he  works  less.  Still,  when  I  look  out  upon  the 
earth  covered  with  snow,  and  the  weather  so  dismal  and  thick ; 
when  I  think  of  the  climate  to  which  he  is  going,  and  his  ex- 
treme sensitiveness  to  cold,  I  am  ready  to  die  of  grief.  I  would 
endure  his  absence  if  I  could  be  assured  of  his  health." 

Her  long  and  almost  daily  letters  to  their  guardian  angel, 


FLIGHT  INTO  HOLLAND.  859 

D'Argental,  show  how  her  heart  was  torn  with  apprehension 
and  anxiety  during  the  next  two  months.  She  brooded  over 
the  situation.  She  imagined  new  explanations.  She  feared 
a  collision  between  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  at  Brussels.  She 
dreaded  lest  her  poet  should  go  to  the  Prince  Royal  of  Prussia, 
and  never  return  to  Cirey.  That  prince  might  be  amiable, 
but  he  was  not  king,  and  he  had  an  ogre  of  a  father,  who  might 
even  arrest  a  French  poet  and  send  him  packing  home  to  a 
Keeper  of  the  Seals.  The  ogre  would  have  liked  nothing  bet- 
ter. That  metaphysical  treatise,  too,  that  thirty-page  letter 
to  the  prince  upon  Liberty  and  Necessity,  —  what  insanity  to 
trust  such  a  dreadful  package  of  explosive  matter  out  of  their 
own  hands  !  "  A  Treatise,"  wrote  madame,  "  reasonable  enough 
to  bring  its  author  to  the  stake ;  a  book  a  thousand  times  more 
dangerous,  and,  assuredly,  more  punishable,  than  the  '  Pu- 
celle.'  "  And  the  prince  to  have  in  his  custody  such  a  work  as 
that !  How  likely  it  was  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Prus- 
sian ministry,  and  so  reach  his  father,  and  thus  the  French 
ambassador,  and  finally  the  French  ministry !  To  confide 
such  a  work  to  a  prince  of  twenty-four  years,  unformed,  whom 
a  fit  of  sickness  might  render  religious  !  To  make  the  happi- 
ness of  her  life  depend  upon  the  discretion  and  fidelity  of  the 
Prince  Royal,  merely  to  gratify  a  foolish  vanity  of  showing  the 
work  to  a  young  man  who  could  not  appreciate  it.  Thus 
she  tormented  herself  with  apprehensions  of  evil,  shut  up  in 
the  dead  of  winter  in  an  old  country  chateau,  which  only  his 
presence  could  for  a  day  have  made  endurable.  For  some 
time  she  indulged  the  fancy  that  one  of  her  own  relations  had 
taken  this  method  of  gratifying  an  enmity  against  her.  So 
she  was  wretched  in  the  belief  that  she  had  been  the  cause  of 
his  unhappiness.  But  she  had  one  comfort :  "  Happily,  I  am 
sure  of  M.  du  Chatelet.  He  is  the  most  honorable  and  the 
most  estimable  man  I  know,  and  I  should  be  the  basest  of 
creatures  if  I  did  not  think  so."  Again,  "  It  is  a  happiness 
unique  to  live  with  a  man  so  worthy." 

The  traveler  was  by  no  meaus  so  unhappy  as  she.  At  Brus- 
sels he  did  not  fall  foul  of  Rousseau,  and  the  actors  there  cele- 
brated the  arrival  of  M.  Renol,  merchant,  by  performing  the 
tragedy  of  "  Alzire,"  written  by  M.  de  Voltaire,  poet.  The 
same  coincidence  marked  the  arrival  of  M.  Renol  at  Anvers, 


860  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  next  large  city  of  Flanders.  The  gazettes  informed  the 
public  that  M.  de  Voltaire  was  on  his  way  to  visit  the  Prince 
Royal  of  Prussia ;  and  that  prince,  on  learning  the  true  cause 
of  his  leaving  Cirey,  sent  a  messenger  to  offer  him  the  use 
of  the  Prussian  ambassador's  house  in  London.  The  prince 
overwhelmed  him  with  sympathy  and  attention.  Voltaire 
received  four  letters  from  him  at  the  same  time,  besides  a 
copy  of  Wolf's  "  Metaphysics  "  and  a  cargo  of  French  verses. 
Continuing  his  journey,  he  reached  Amsterdam,  still  as  M. 
Renol,  merchant ;  but  there  the  transparent  disguise  was 
laid  aside.  He  had  a  world  of  business  at  the  Dutch  capital, 
where  a  complete  and  authorized  edition  of  his  works  was  in 
course  of  publication,  and  where  he  intended  to  have  an  edi- 
tion of  his  "Elements  of  Newton"  published  simultaneously 
with  one  at  Paris.  At  Leyden,  where  he  spent  several  days, 
he  improved  the  opportunity  to  submit  knotty  points  in 
Newton  to  the  learned  professors  of  the  university,  partic- 
ularly^ to  Professor  s'  Gravesande,  a  staunch  Newtonian. 
Twenty  English  gentlemen  of  the  suite  of  George  II.  called 
upon  him  at  Leyden,  and  he  received  them,  busy  as  he  was. 
His  mind  seemed  absorbed  in  Newton  during  most  of  his  stay 
in  Holland. 

"I  live  here,"  he  wrote  to  D'Argental,  "quite  like  a  phi- 
losojaher.  I  study  much  ;  I  see  little  company  ;  I  try  to  under- 
stand Newton,  and  I  try  to  make  him  understood.  I  console 
myself  by  study  for  the  absence  of  my  friends.  It  is  not  pos- 
sible at  present  for  me  to  recast  the  '  Prodigal  Son.'  I  could 
well  enough  labor  at  a  tragedy  in  the  morning  and  at  a  comedy 
in  the  evening;  but  to  pass  in  the  same  day  from  Newton  to 
Thalia,  I  do  not  feel  the  force  for  it.  Wait  till  the  spring, 
gentlemen  ;  la  poesie  will  serve  her  quarter  ;  but  just  now  it 
is  the  turn  of  science.  If  I  do  not  succeed  with  Newton,  I 
shall  console  myself  very  quii'kly  with  you." 

The  agonizing  letters  of  Madame  du  Chatelet  imploring  his 
return  soon  prevailed ;  and  in  March,  1737,  after  an  absence 
of  nearly  three  months,  he  gave  out  on  all  sides  that  he  was 
going  to  England,  and  slipped  quietly  back  to  Cirey.  "  Be 
sure  and  not  forget  that  I  am  in  England,"  he  writes  to  Abb^ 
Moussinot. 

No  act  of   arbitrary  power  of  which  he  was  himself  the 


1 


FLIGHT  INTO  HOLLAND.  361 

victim  ever  stirred  within  him  so  lasting  indignation  as  this 
proscription  of  "  Le  Mondain."  He  spoke  of  it  twenty  years 
after  with  bitterness,  and  it  was,  perhaps,  the  chief  motive 
of  his  attempt  to  establish  himself,  at  a  later  day,  in  another 
country.  He  felt  it  the  more  acutely  because  the  abhorred 
Rousseau  was  the  witness  and  harbinger  of  his  discredit. 
To  Rousseau  he  attributed  scandalous  paragraphs  which  ap- 
peared in  the  gazettes,  informing  Europe  that  the  author  of 
the  English  Letters  had  been  driven  (^chasse')  from  France, 
never  to  return,  and  had  gone  to  Leyden  for  the  purpose  of  de- 
fending: atheism  against  Professor  s'  Gravesande.  These  re- 
ports  reached  Paris,  reached  the  government,  and  he  asked  the 
professor  to  "  write  two  words  to  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury,"  to 
set  him  right  with  that  minister;  for,  said  he,  "all  my  prop, 
erty  is  in  France,  and  I  am  under  a  necessity  of  destroying  an 
imposture  which  in  your  country  I  should  content  myself  with 
despising,  as  you  would." 

Madame  du  Chatelet,  and  she  alone,  brought  him  back  to 
France.  "  A  man  of  letters,"  he  wrote  to  D'Argental,  soon 
after  his  return  to  Cirey,  "  ought  to  live  in  a  free  country,  or 
make  up  his  mind  to  lead  the  life  of  a  timorous  slave,  whom 
other  slaves,  jealous  of  him,  continually  accuse  to  the  master. 
In  France  I  have  nothing  to  expect  but  such  persecutions ; 
they  will  be  my  only  recompense.  I  feel  that  I  shall  always 
be  the  victim  of  the  first  calumniator.  In  vain  I  hide  in  ob- 
scurity ;  in  vain  I  write  to  no  one ;  it  will  be  known  where  I 
am,  and  my  obstinate  concealment  will  perhaps  render  my 
retreat  culpable.  Thus,  I  live  in  continual  alarm  without 
knowing  how  I  can  parry  the  blows  dealt  me  every  day. 
There  is  no  likelihood  of  my  ever  returning  to  Paris,  to  expose 
myself  again  to  the  furies  of  superstition  and  envy.  I  shall  live 
at  Cirey  or  in  a  free  land.  /  have  always  said  to  you  that 
{/"  ^y  father^  my  brother^  or  my  son  ivere  prime  minister  of 
a  despotic  state,  I  would  leave  it  to-morrou> !  Judge  what 
must  be  my  repugnance  on  finding  myself  in  such  a  state 
to-day!  But,  after  all,  Madame  du  Chatelet  is  to  me  more 
than  a  father,  a  brother,  or  a  son." 

He  wrote,  nevertheless,  a  conciliatory  letter  to  one  of  the 
mmisters,  M.  de  Maurepas ;  to  whom,  also,  madame  sent  a 
propitiatory  present  of   two  bucks,   much    fearing   that    they 


362  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

would  reach  him  the  worse  for  their  journey, — pourris,  as  she 
plainly  expressed  it. 

Was  he  going  to  be  a  good  boy,  then,  and  write  no  more 
Mondains  and  essays  upon  Liberty  and  Necessity?  That 
was  Madame  du  Chatelet's  desire.  She  implored  him  to  be 
"  prudent "  (sage)  ;  she  strove,  as  she  said,  to  "  save  him  from 
himself  ;  "  she  begged  him  to  leave  out  of  his  new  edition  the 
passages  that  were  most  "  burnable."  That,  however,  was 
not  Voltaire's  interpretation  of  the  case.  As  soon  as  he  was 
well  settled  at  Cirey  again,  in  the  spring  of  1737,  he  amused 
himself  by  writing  a  "  Defense  of  the  Mondain,"  a  poem  a 
little  longer  than  the  "  Mondain  "  itself,  and,  if  possible,  more 
audacious,  more  comic,  more  gracefully  effective  and  mur- 
derous. "  At  table  3'esterday,  by  a  sad  chance,  I  found  my- 
self seated  by  a  master  hypocrite."  The  poem  consists  of 
the  conversation  between  tlie  poet  and  the  priest ;  and  this 
device  gave  him  an  opportunity,  which  he  made  the  most  of, 
to  show  that,  whatever  abstinence  priests  might  preach,  they 
did  not  deny  themselves  mundane  luxuries.  His  description 
of  this  luxurious  churchman  guzzling  perfumed  and  amber 
colored  canary,  after  consigning  the  author  of  "  the  Mondain 
to  perdition,  is  extremely  diverting.  Nor  does  he  omit  to 
adduce  the  example  of  Solomon,  held  up  as  the  wisest  of 
men ;  who,  however,  carried  luxurious  indulgence  to  a  point 
which  the  Mondain  would  not  presume  to  attempt.  "A  thou- 
sand beauties  ?  That  is  much  for  a  sage !  Give  me  one. 
One  is  enough  for  me,  who  have  not  the  honor  to  be  either  sage 
or  king." 

He  wrote  yet  another  poem,  entitled  "  The  Use  of  Life  :  A 
Reply  to  Criticism  upon  the  Mondain,"  in  which  he  inculcated 
moderation  and  temperance.  "  The  secret  of  happiness  is  to 
moderate  your  desires."  "  To  enjoy  the  pleasures,  you  must 
know  how  to  leave  them."  Prosperity,  adversity,  —  these 
are  but  names  ;  "  our  happiness  is  in  ourselves  alone." 


)' 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

VOLTAIRE  AND  SCIENCE. 

For  about  four  years  —  1735  to  1739  —  science  was  the 
chief  pursuit  of  the  inmates  of  the  chateau  of  Cirey.  The 
new  impulse  toward  science,  originating  in  the  Royal  Society, 
and  stimulated  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  sublime  career,  reached 
France  soon  after  Voltaire's  return  from  England,  and  kept 
on  its  way  round  the  world.  It  set  printer  Franklin  and  his 
leather- aproned  junto  rubbing  electrical  tubes  in  Philadel- 
phia. It  made  farmer  Bartram  of  Pennsylvania  a  botanist, 
and  Jefferson  in  Virginia  a  natural  philosopher.  It  captivated 
Voltaire  in  1735,  and  held  him  long  enthralled.  Among  his 
friends  and  instructors  at  Leyden,  the  Leyden  jar  was  soon 
to  be  invented.  As  in  all  progressive  times,  so  in  that  won- 
derful century  of  seed-sowing,  the  boundaries  of  human  knowl- 
edge were  greatly  enlarged  ;  and  it  was  inevitable  that  so  sym- 
pathetic a  spirit  as  Voltaire  should  endeavor  to  lend  a  helping 
hand. 

He  believed,  too,  in  a  varied  culture.  He  was  prone  to  un- 
dervalue the  man  of  one  talent;  the  nature  with  only  one  cul- 
tivated field  ;  the  poet,  like  J.  B.  Rousseau,  who  could  do 
nothing  but  poetry  ;  the  man  of  business  who  was  only  a  busi- 
ness man  ;  the  philosopher  who  always  and  only  philosophized. 
He  said,  more  than  once,  that  he  should  have  venerated  New- 
ton the  more  if  Newton  had  written  some  vaudevilles  for  the 
London  stage.  Friends  remonstrated  with  him  upon  his  ab- 
sorption in  pursuits  that  seemed  to  them  foreign  to  his  nature. 
He  had  been  a  punctual  and  profuse  correspondent  until  sci- 
ence possessed  him  :  then  he  often  forgot  or  delayed  to  an- 
swer his  letters.  "  What  shall  you  gain,"  asked  Cideville, 
"  by  knowing  the  pathway  of  light  and  the  gravitation  of 
Saturn  ?  " 

"  We  must  give  our  souls,"  he  replied,  "  all  the  forms  possi- 


364  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

ble  to  them.  It  is  a  fire  -which  God  has  confided  to  us ;  we 
ought  to  nourish  it  with  whatever  we  find  that  is  most  precious. 
We  must  have  all  imaginable  modes  of  intellectual  life,  open 
all  the  doors  of  our  souls  to  all  the  sciences  and  all  the  senti- 
ments ;  and.  provided  that  they  do  not  enter  pell-mell,  there 
is  room  within  us  for  eveiy  one  of  them." 

And  so  for  four  or  five  years  he  was  a  natural  philosopher. 
He  filled  his  gallery  with  costly  apparatus,  —  air-pumps,  ther- 
mometers, furnaces,  crucibles,  retorts,  telescopes,  microscopes, 
prisms,  scales,  and  compasses.  Failing  to  get  a  competent 
chemist  who  could  say  mass  on  Sundays  in  the  chapel  of  the 
chateau,  he  endeavored  to  form  and  train  a  young  man  for  the 
work  of  the  laboratory  alone,  which  answered  better.  For  a 
year  or  two  he  had  a  chemical  assistant  at  Cirey ;  and,  indeed, 
many  of  his  experiments  must  have  required  the  aid  of  several 
men,  —  Aveighing  a  ton  of  red-hot  iron,  for  example.  We  per- 
ceive that  Prince  Frederic  caught  the  new  taste,  and  followed 
his  example.  The  prince  sowed  radish-seed  in  an  exhausted 
receiver  to  see  if  seed  would  germinate  without  air.  He 
worked  his  air-pump  diligently.  It  was  "the  mode"  with  the 
intelligent  portion  of  the  public  not  to  be  content  with  their 
ignorance  of  natural  laws. 

The  chief  results  of  Voltaire's  studies  and  experiments  in 
science  occupy  two  volumes  of  his  works,  and  strengthen  every 
other  volume  produced  in  the  latter  half  of  his  life.  One  of 
these  volumes  is  devoted  to  his  "  Elements  of  Newton's  Phi- 
losoph)'',"  —  a  work  of  great  celebrity  in  its  day,  obsolete  now 
only  because  Newton's  philosophy  is  part  and  parcel  of  human 
thought  in  every  civilized  land. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  throughout  the  wide  range  of  Vol- 
taire's works  how  Newton  had  fascinated  him.  In  London,  both 
Franklin  and  Voltaire,  almost  at  the  same  time,  appear  to  us 
as  if  haunting  Newton's  neighborhood;  longing  for  a  sight  of 
the  aged  discoverer,  and  longing  in  vain  ;  happy  to  converse 
with  those  who  had  known  him.  When  he  was  in  England, 
Voltaire  tells  us,  he  was  denied  the  consolation  of  seeing  the 
great  philosopher,  who  was  then  sinking  to  the  tomb  ;  but  he 
frequently  met  Dr.  Samuel  Clarke,  Newton's  friend  and  disci- 
ple, who  continued  the  controversy  with  Leibnitz  after  the 
master's  death.     From  conversations  with  Dr.  Clarke  he  de- 


VOLTAIRE   AND   SCIENCE.  365 

rived  that  impulse  towards  metaphysics  which  influenced  him 
for  some  years.  But,  he  tells  us,  he  soon  perceived  the  insuf- 
ficiency of  the  metaphysical  systems  then  in  vogue.  "  One 
day,  full  of  those  grand  subjects  which  charm  the  mind  by 
their  immensity,  I  said  to  a  very  enlightened  member  of  the 
company,  '  Mr.  Clarke  is  a  much  greater  metaphysician  than 
Mr.  Newton.'  '  That  may  be,'  was  the  cool  reply.  '  It  is  as 
if  you  should  say  that  one  of  them  plays  •with,  balloons  better 
than  the  other.'  This  reply  made  me  reenter  into  myself. 
Since  that  time  I  have  dared  to  pierce  some  of  those  balloons 
of  metaphysics,  and  have  found  that  nothing  came  out  of  them 
except  wind.  So,  when  I  said  to  M.  s'  Gravesande,  '  Vanity 
of  vanities,  and  metaphysics  are  vanity,'  he  replied,  'I  am  very 
sorry  that  you  are  right.'  " 

Another  English  anecdote  of  Dr.  Clarke  he  called  to  mind 
on  beginning  to  write  his  "Elements  of  Newton, ".and  he 
introduced  it  very  happily,  as  if  to  disarm  the  prejudices  of 
those  who  regarded  the  philosophy  of  Descartes  as  part  of 
their  orthodoxy.  These  are  the  opening  sentences  of  his  work 
upon  the  "  Principia  :  "  — 

"  Newton  was  intimately  persuaded  of  the  existence  of  a  God,  and 
he  understood  by  that  word  not  only  an  infinite  being,  all-powerful, 
eternal  and  the  Creator,  but  a  Master  who  has  established  a  relation 
between  himself  and  his  creatures  ;  for,  without  that  relation,  the 
knowledge  of  a  God  is  only  a  sterile  idea,  which,  by  the  hope  of  im- 
punity, would  seem  to  invite  to  crime  every  reasoner  of  perverse  dis- 
position. Thus  that  great  philosopher  makes  a  singular  remark  at 
the  end  of  his  '  Principia.'  It  is  that  we  do  not  say,  My  Eternal,  my 
Infinite,  because  those  attributes  have  no  relation  to  our  nature  ;  but 
we  say,  and  ought  to  say,  My  God,  by  which  we  must  understand 
the  Master  and  the  Preserver  of  our  lives  and  the  object  of  our 
thoughts.  I  remember  that,  in  several  conversations  which  I  had  in 
1726  with  Dr.  Clarke,  that  pliilosopher  never  pronounced  the  name 
of  God  except  with  an  air  of  seriousness  and  respect  very  noticeable. 
I  mentioned  to  him  the  impression  which  that  made  upon  me.  He 
told  me  it  was  from  Newton  that  he  had  insensibly  taken  the  habit, 
—  which,  indeed,  ought  to  be  that  of  all  men.  The  whole  philosophy 
of  Newton  conducts  necessarily  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  who  has  created  everything,  and  arranged  everything  accord- 
ing to  his  will." 

With  this  prelude,  so  just  to  Newton,  he  enters  upon  the 


366  LITE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

first  part  of  his  task,  which  is  to  give  an  account  of  the  con- 
troversy between  Newton  and  Leibnitz  upon  the  metaphysics 
of  his  theme.  Newton's  opinion  was  that  God,  infinitely  free, 
as  infinitely  powerful,  had  done  all  things  without  any  other 
reason  than  his  own  wnll ;  the  planets,  for  example,  moving 
from  west  to  east,  rather  than  from  east  to  west,  simply  and 
solely  because  such  was  God's  will.  Leibnitz,  on  the  con- 
trary, held  that  God's  will  was  determined  by  reasons  ade- 
quate to  control  it.  Then,  said  Newton,  God  is  not  free. 
Then,  replied  Leibnitz,  God  is  capricious.  Newton  and  Leib- 
nitz were  also  at  variance  upon  the  nature  of  the  connection 
between  the  soul  and  the  body,  and  upon  many  other  ques- 
tions not  then  ripe  even  for  serious  consideration.  "  If  any 
one,"  says  Voltaire,  "  wishes  to  know  what  Newton  thought 
upon  the  soul,  and  upon  the  manner  in  which  it  operates,  I 
shall  reply  that  he  followed  none  of  the  cnrrent  opinions  of 
his  time.  Do  you  ask  what  that  man  knew  upon  this  subject, 
who  had  submitted  the  infinite  to  calculation,  and  had  discov- 
ered the  laws  of  gravity  ?     He  knew  how  to  doubt." 

The  second  part  of  Voltaire's  work  contains  the  exposition 
of  Newton's  researches  in  optics.  Here  he  was  by  no  means 
either  a  translator  or  a  compiler.  He  tried  all  the  experiments 
described  by  Newton.  He  had  in  his  gallery  at  Cirey  a  dark 
chamber,  arranged  accord'ng  to  Newton's  description,  in  which 
he  performed  the  experiments  with  prisms  of  various  sizes 
and  kinds  which  are  now  so  familiar.  Every  intelligent  vis- 
itor to  the  chateau  was  sure  to  be  taken  to  this  dark  room  to 
see  him  break  a  ray  c^f  light  into  Sir  Isaac's  brilliant  rainbow. 
He  invented  some  experiments  of  his  own,  and  brought  the 
air-pump  into  requisition  to  see  the  effect  of  a  vacuum  upon 
the  prismatic  colors.  He  was  exceedingly  pleased  with  his 
prisms  and  his  dark  chamber;  he  reflected  much  upon  the 
Newtonian  theory  of  light,  but,  like  most  other  philosophers, 
he  left  the  subject  where  Newton  left  it  in  his  last  edition  of 

1726. 

The  difficult  part  of  Voltaire's  task  was  in  explaining  the 
principle  of  gravitation.  Sir  Isaac  himself  gives  a  list  of  the 
works  necessary  to  be  understood  by  a  student  before  attempt- 
mo-  bis  "  Principia,"  —  a  somewhat  formidable  catalogue. 
INIost  mathematicians,  however,  recommend  a  much  more  ex- 


VOLTAIRE   AND   SCIENCE.  367 

tensive  preparation.  Whatever  was  necessary  for  the  clear 
vmderstanding  of  this  part  of  Newton's  work,  Voltaire  ac- 
quired. He  wrestled  mightily  with  his  task ;  for  at  college 
he  had  had  no  mathematical  training.  With  the  assistance 
of  Maupertuis,  of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  of  the  learned  pro- 
fessors of  Leyden  University,  and  his  own  unconquerable  reso- 
lution, he  mastered  the  work,  and  gave  an  account  of -it  wliich 
any  educated  person  of  good  intelligence  can  follow  and  enjoy. 
His  essay  is  free  from  those  sallies  of  wit  and  satire,  those 
side-blows  at  the  various  objects  of  his  antipathy,  which  mark 
almost  every  other  production  of  his  pen.  Descartes,  whose 
philosophy  Newton's  displaced,  and  Leibnitz,  Newton's  chief 
opponent,  he  treats  with  the  respect  due  to  their  great  quali- 
ties, while  dissenting  with  perfect  candor  from  their  positions. 

Before  dispatching  the  last  chapters  to  his  printers  in  Am- 
sterdam, he  sent  a  copy  of  the  whole  work  to  the  Chancellor 
of  France,  asking  for  a  royal  privilege  to  publish  it.  He  ex- 
pected to  receive  the  privilege.  "  The  most  imbecile  fanatic, 
the  most  envenomed  hypocrite,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "  can 
find  nothing  in  it  to  object  to."  Six  months  passed  away, 
and  he  had  received  no  answer  to  his  application.  By  way 
of  showing,  as  he  says,  "  a  docility  without  reserve,"  he  sus- 
pended the  publication  in  Holland ;  and,  to  make  the  suspen- 
sion sure,  he  withheld  the  manuscript  of  the  last  two  chap- 
ters. Other  months  passed,  and  no  news  from  the  censorship. 
The  Dutch  printers,  impatient,  engaged  a  local  mathematician 
to  complete  the  work ;  which  they  jDublished,  swarming  with 
errors,  with  a  telittling  title-page  of  their  own  concocting, 
and  the  last  pages  added  by  another  hand.  Finally,  to  com- 
plete the  series  of  misfortunes,  the  Chancellor  of  France,  M. 
d'Aguesseau,  refused  the  privilege  of  publication,  and  left  the 
author  to  struggle  as  he  might  with  this  complication  of  em- 
barrassments. 

The  most  bigoted  reader  would  look  through  the  work  in 
vain  to  find  either  cause  or  pretext  for  the  ministerial  ban. 
The  reason  was  the  freedom  with  which  he  had  handled  the 
theories  of  Descartes,  who  supposed  that  the  earth  and  the 
moon  were  whirled  along  from  west  to  east  by  a  vast  number 
of  minute  particles  rushing  eternally  in  the  same  direction. 
Descartes  ruled  in  science  and  in  literature.     Polite  society 


368  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRK 

was  Cartesi:in.  As  M.  Saigey  remarks,  "  it  savored  of  good 
breeding "  to  profess  a  belief  in  the  Cartesian  whirlwinds. 
Grandes  dames,  and  the  young  ladies  who  composed  their 
courts,  had  upon  their  toilet-tables  Fontenelle's  "  Conversa- 
tions upon  the  Plurality  of  Worlds,"  in  which  the  astronomy 
of  Descartes  was  adorned  Avith  all  the  gi-aces  of  his  style. 
Descartes  was  defended  against  Newton  in  the  most  elegant 
circles.  The  Duchess  du  Maine  and  her  court  were  Carte- 
sian, and  nearly  all  institutions  of  learning  in  France,  which 
took  notice  of  astronomy  at  all,  illustrated  the  wisdom  and  the 
power  of  the  Creator  by  describing  the  Cartesian  whirlwinds 
with  whatever  eloquence  they  possessed. 

This  was  precisely  the  condition  of  things  which  a  compe- 
tent author  would  desire,  if  he  were  sure  he  had  the  truth  on 
his  side.  Voltaire's  work,  impatiently  expected,  and  long  de- 
layed by  the  perversity  of  things  and  men,  struggled  into  life 
at  last,  and  made  a  genuine  sensation.  The  errors  of  the  first 
Holland  edition  published  without  his  knowledge,  the  novelty 
of  a  poet  appearing  in  the  character  of  a  man  of  science,  the 
author's  prompt,  vehement  explanations  and  remonstrances, 
the  publication  at  length  of  a  correct  and  authorized  version, 
the  opposition  of  the  polite  world,  the  flaming  zeal  of  the  few 
Newtonians,  all  contributed  to  enhance  the  celebrity  and  in- 
fluence of  the  book.  The  "  Dutch  corsairs,"  as  he  styled  the 
impatient  printers  of  Amsterdam,  had  taken  the  liberty  to 
entitle  the  work  "  The  Elements  of  the  Philosophy  of  New- 
ton Adapted  to  Every  Capacity  "  (^mis  a  la  portee  de  tout  le 
monde).  The  malign  Desfontaines  remarked,  in  his  notice, 
that  there  was  one  error  of  the  Dutch  edition  which  the  au- 
thor had  not  corrected.  For  portee,  said  he,  read  joo?-tg/  since 
it  was  only  at  everybody's  door  that  the  new  work  was  put. 
The  work  made  its  way  through  a  vast  number  of  doors,  and 
in  ten  years  there  were  scarcely  ten  Cartesians  in  France. 

Before  Newton  was  off  his  hands,  he  was  immersed  in  origi- 
nal researches.  The  Academy  of  Sciences  proposed  as  the 
subject  for  the  prize  essay  of  1738  "  The  Nature  of  Fire  and 
its  Propagation."  Voltaire,  who  was  living  in  a  land  of  fire, 
near  forges  and  foundries  vomiting  flame  by  night  and  day, 
resolved  to  compete  for  the  prize,  and  entered  upon  a  course 
of  laborious  experiment.     We   have  seen   him,  on   previous 


VOLTAIRE   AND   SCIENCE.  369 

pages,  setting  the  Abb(5  Moussinot  at  work  among  the  chem- 
ists of  Paris.  At  Chaumont  he  frequently  visited  a  foundry, 
where  he  had  scales  prepared  for  weighing  huge  masses  of 
iron,  cold  and  hot,  as  well  as  great  pots  for  weighing  melted 
iron.  He  weighed  from  two  pounds  to  two  thousand  pounds, 
first  cold,  and  then  hot.  He  worked  thoroughly  and  deliber- 
ately, beginning  by  having  iron  chains  put  to  the  scales  in- 
stead of  ropes,  and  taking  the  precaution  to  be  surrounded  by 
"  ten  ocular  witnesses,"  of  whom  one,  doubtless,  was  Madame 
du  Chatelet.  What  an  unwonted  scene  in  a  Chaumont  foun- 
dry !  He  had  three  cast-iron  pots,  very  thick,  hung  upon 
scales  near  the  furnace,  into  one  of  which  he  caused  a  hun- 
dred pounds  of  liquid  iron  to  be  poured ;  into  another,  thiity- 
five  pounds  ;  into  the  third,  twenty-five.  After  six  hours' 
cooling,  he  found  that  his  hundred-pound  mass  weighed  one 
hundred  and  four  pounds,  and  that  the  others  had  increased 
in  proportion.  This  experiment  he  repeated  many  times,  al- 
ways with  the  same  results.  Then  he  tried  it  with  pots  of 
gray  ore,  "  less  metallic  "  than  the  cast-iron,  and  there  was 
neither  increase  nor  diminution  of  weight  in  the  contents  of 
the  pots.  Yet  he  was  long  in  doubt  whether  heat  possessed 
the  property  of  weight,  because  the  results  of  his  experiments 
were  not  uniform,  and  he  could  not  always  determine  whether 
the  occasional  increase  of  weight  was  due  to  heat  or  to  the 
absorption  of  matter  from  the  atmosphere  or  the  vessel. 

He  performed  a  series  of  experiments  with  hot  and  cold 
liquids,  heating  various  liquids  separately,  mixing  them  hot, 
mixing  them  cold,  pouring  a  pint  of  boiling  liquid  upon  a  pint 
of  cold,  and  blending  them  in  all  conceivable  ways;  which  led 
him  to  the  discovery  that  the  temperature  resulting  from  mix- 
ing two  liquids  of  different  temperatures  is  not  always  the 
mean  temperature.  "  I  have  prepared,"  he  says  in  his  essay, 
"  some  experiments  upon  the  heat  which  liquids  communicate 
to  liquids  and  solids  to  solids,  and  I  will  give  a  table  of  the 
same,  if  the  gentlemen  of  the  Academy  are  of  opinion  that  it 
could  be  of  any  utility." 

He  experimented  laboriously  upon  the  second  part  of  his 
subject,  the  Propagation  of  Fire.  He  tried  one  experiment 
which  would  not  have  been  safe  in  the  drier  atmosphere  of 
America,  where  a  spark  from  a  cigar  on  a  still  day  can  set  a 

VOL.  I.  24 


370  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

mountain  or  a  plain  on  fire.  He  had  a  piece  of  forest,  eighty- 
feet  by  twenty,  partly  cleared,  but  strewn  with  fallen  trees 
and  cut  wood  ;  to  one  end  of  which  he  applied  fire  by  means 
of  straw.  The  day  being  serene  and  dry,  the  fire  advanced 
twenty  feet  in  an  hour,  and  then  went  out.  But  the  next  day 
there  was  a  high  wind,  and  the  whole  eighty  feet  was  burnt 
over  in  an  hour. 

The  science  of  one  century  is  the  ignorance  of  the  next.  It 
was  impossible  that  an  essay  upon  Fire,  written  in  1737,  should 
have  final  scientific  value,  except  to  mark  how  far  the  subject 
had  then  been  developed  ;  as  Pliny,  in  his  "  Natural  His- 
tory," gives  us  an  imperishable  and  priceless  cyclopaedia  of 
human  ignorance  in  the  first  century.  Voltaire's  essay  is  all 
acuteness  and  tact  ;  but  it  is  not  free  from  a  little  half-con- 
scious attitudinizing.  The  doctors  recommended  him,  about 
this  time,  to  take  more  exercise  in  the  open  air  ;  hunting,  for 
example.  Why  not  hunt,  in  a  hunting  country  ?  Whereupon 
he  requests  the  Abbe  Moussinot  to  send  him  from  Paris  the 
complete  apparatus  and  costume  of  a  hunter.  He  wore  it 
once  or  twice,  but  he  soon  discovered  that  killing  animals  and 
birds  for  pleasure  was  not  very  congenial.  He  adhered  longer 
to  science  than  to  shooting;  but  we  catch  glimpses  of  the  trap- 
pings of  the  investigator ;  we  observe  a  polite  company  gath- 
ered round  the  iron  pots  of  liquid  iron,  with  a  poet  in  the 
midst  of  them  amiably  demonstrating  that  it  is  possible  for  a 
poet  to  know  something  besides  verse-making. 

His  essay  was  nearly  done,  and  he  was  preparing  to  send  it 
to  the  Academy,  the  authorship  being  duly  concealed  accord- 
ing to  the  rule.  Madame  du  Chatelet,  who  had  dissented  from 
some  of  his  conclusions,  suddenly  resolved  to  send  in  a  com- 
peting essay.  "  I  wished  [as  she  explained  to  Maupertuis]  to 
try  my  powers  under  the  shelter  of  the  incognito  ;  for  I  ex- 
pected never  to  be  known.  M.  du  Chatelet  was  the  only  one 
in  my  confidence,  and  he  kept  the  secret  so  well  that  he  said 
nothing  of  it  even  to  you  at  Paris.  I  could  perform  no  experi- 
ment, because  my  project  was  unknown  to  M.  de  Voltaire, 
and  I  could  not  have  concealed  experiments  from  him.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  compete  only  a  month  before  the  expira- 
tion of  the  time  set  by  the  Academy  for  sending  in  the  essays. 
I  could  only  work  in  the  night,  and  I  was  all  new  in  these  sub- 


VOLTAIRE  AND   SCIENCE.  371 

jects.  M.  de  Voltaire's  work,  wliich  was  almost  finished  when 
I  began  mine,  suggested  some  ideas,  as  well  as  the  desire  to 
compete.  I  set  to  work  without  knowing  whether  I  should 
ever  see  my  essay  again,  and  I  said  nothing  about  it  to  M.  de 
Voltaire,  because  I  did  not  wish  to  blush  before  him  for  an 
undertaking  which  I  feared  might  displease  him.  Besides,  I 
combated  almost  all  his  ideas." 

For  eight  successive  nights  she  toiled  at  her  essay,  only 
sleeping  "  an  hour  "  each  night ;  and  when  nearly  overcome 
by  sleep  she  would  plunge  her  hands  into  ice-water,  walk 
rapidly  up  and  down  the  room,  and  throw  her  arms  about. 
Thirty  essays  were  received  from  the  different  countries  of 
Europe,  of  which  five  were  pronounced  worthy  to  compete. 
Two  of  these  select  five  were  written  at  Cirey  ;  but  the  prize 
was  divided  among  the  other  three  contestants  :  Professor  Eu- 
ler,  of  St.  Petersburg,  Father  Lozeraude  de  Fiesc,  of  the  Jes- 
uits, and  the  Count  de  Crequi-Canai^les,  a  French  nobleman. 
The  essay  of  the  eminent  mathematician,  Euler,  contained 
some  valuable  and  even  memorable  points ;  it  was  the  work  of 
a  man  of  science.  Those  of  his  two  associates  in  glory  owed 
their  laurels,  as  French  historians  of  science  tell  us,  solely  to 
the  fact  that  they  adhered  to  the  philosophy  of  Descartes, 
which,  in  1738,  was  clinging  to  life  with  the  tenacity  of  death. 
"  It  savored  of  good  breeding  to  be  Cartesian,"  —  the  last  re- 
source of  error,  that  has  received  its  death-wound.  Condorcet 
says  boldly  that  Voltaire's  essay  deserved  the  prize,  an  opinion 
from  which  M.  Emile  Saigey  does  not  dissent.^  "  Voltaire's 
essay  [says  M.  Saigey]  is  in  advance  of  the  science  of  that 
age,  and  we  find  in  it  many  passages  the  value  of  which  could 
not  then  have  been  appreciated." 

When  the  news  of  the  awards  reached  Cirey,  the  lady  of 
the  chateau  told  her  secret.  "  I  felt  [she  says]  that  a  rejec- 
tion shared  by  him  was  an  honor  to  me."  He  took  the  little 
comedy  in  good  part ;  read  her  essay,  extolled  it  warmly,  pro- 
cured its  honorable  publication  by  the  Academy,  and  wrote  an 
anonymous  review  of  it  for  the  press,  which  carried  the  name 
of  the  authoress  to  the  ends  of  Europe.  She  was  gratified  by 
the  celebrity  he  gave  her.  He  dedicated  to  her  almost  every- 
thing he  published  at  this  period,  and  we  perceive  from  her 
1  La  Physique  de  Voltaire,  page  53.  ' 


872  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

letters  that  she  did  not  enjoy  the  omission  of  his  compli- 
mentary e^Mstles  in  some  of  tlie  foreign  editions  of  his  works. 
In  tlie  records  of  the  Academy  both  essays  were  printed,  pre- 
ceded by  a  notice  :  "  The  authors  of  the  two  following  pieces 
having  made  known  their  desire  that  they  should  be  printed, 
we  consent  thereto  with  pleasure,  although  we  cannot  approve 
the  idea  advanced  in  either  of  them  of  the  nature  of  fire. 
Both  essays  give  evidence  of  great  reading,  great  knowledge 
of  the  best  works  upon  science,  and  they  are  filled  with  facts 
and  views.  Besides,  the  name  alone  of  the  authors  can  inter- 
est the  public  curiosity.  No.  6  is  by  a  lady  of  high  rank, 
Madame  du  Chatelet,  and  the  piece  No.  7  is  by  one  of  our  best 
poets." 

At  the  head  of  his  essay  Voltaire  placed  two  Latin  verses, 
which  have  since  done  good  service  in  similar  ways :  — 

"  Ignis  ubique  latet,  nnturam  amplectitur  omnem, 
Cuncta  parit,  renovat,  dividit,  unit,  alit."  ^ 

D'Alembert  asked  him  who  was  the  author  of  these  lines. 
*'  My  dear  philosopher  [he  replied],  those  two  verses  are  mine. 
I  am  like  the  Bishop  of  Noyon,  who  used  to  say  in  his  sermons, 
'  My  brethren,  I  took  none  of  these  truths  which  I  have  just 
uttered  either  from  the  Scripture  or  from  the  Fathers  ;  all 
came  out  of  the  head  of  your  bishop.' " 

Continuing  their  scientific  labors,  niadame  published,  in 
1740,  a  work  entitled  "  Institutions  Physiques,"  in  which  she 
championed  Leibnitz,  as  Voltaire  had  championed  Newton. 
He  wrote  an  extensive  review  of  it,  in  which  he  mingled  gal- 
lantry and  criticism  with  his  usual  art,  —  not  unwilling  to  let 
his  readers  see  under  what  a  miserable  bondage  religion  itself 
struggled,  when  such  giants  as  Leibnitz  and  Newton  could 
gravely  accept  the  theologian's  chronology,  and  their  pupils 
angrily  discuss  such  frivolous  questions  as  why  God  did  not 
create  the  world  six  thousand  years  sooner  than  he  did,  and 
whether  he  could  have  done  so  if  he  had  wished  it. 

In  1741,  he  sent  to  the  Academy  of  Sciences  an  essay  upon 
the  "  Computation  and  Nature  of  Moving  Forces,"  which  shows 
that,  by  dint  of  several  years'  study  of  science,  mathematically 
treated,  he  had  become  a  respectable  mathematician.     He  em- 

^  Fire  is  hidden  everywhere  :  fills  all  nature  ;  produces,  renews,  divides,  unites, 
nourishes,  all  things. 


VOLTAIRE   AND   SCIENCE.  373 

ploys  the  language  of  mathematics  in  this  essay  with  a  readi- 
ness and  ease  which  prove  familiar  knowledge.  He  appears 
to  have  had  some  intention  of  seeking  admission  to  the  Acad- 
emy of  Sciences,  as  "  a  bulwark  "  against  the  hostility  of  those 
who  were  interested  in  keeping  the  human  mind  in  bondage 
to  tradition. 

A  few  years  later  he  wrote  scientific  essays  on  subjects  more 
within  the  range  of  unlearned  readers.  The  Academy  of  Bo- 
logna having  elected  him  a  member  of  their  body,  he  acknowl- 
edged the  compliment  by  composing  an  essay  for  them  in  the 
Italian  language,  upon  the  Changes  which  have  occurred  in 
our  Globe.  This  essay  shows  us  in  an  interesting  manner 
what  man  did  not  know  in  geology  about  the  middle  of  the 
last  century.  The  spirit  that  pervades  it,  and  which  it  incul- 
cates, is  the  spirit  to  which  we  owe  our  better  knowledge,  — 
the  spirit  of  doubt.  It  is  in  this  essay  that  his  zeal  to  relieve 
infant  science  from  the  incubus  of  sacred  legend  laid  him 
open  to  retort.  It  is  said  that,  even  at  the  present  day,  there 
are  provincials  who  believe  in  a  literal  deluge  of  the  whole 
earth  ;  but  in  1746  all  theologians  assumed  it ;  and  that  one 
legend,  universally  accepted  as  sacred  history,  would  have 
sufficed  to  clioke  science  in  its  cradle.  In  his  zeal,  I  say,  to 
deliver  the  human  mind  from  the  ignominious  bondage  of  the 
deluge  legend,  he  made  light  of  the  discovery  of  shells  and 
fossils  which  had  been  found  upon  mountains.  Geology  had 
not  then  explained  their  presence  a  mile  above  the  sea,  and 
theologians  marked  them  for  their  own. 

"  A  stone,"  said  he,  "  was  discovered  in  the  mountains  of 
Hesse  which  appeared  to  bear  the  impression  of  a  turbot,  and 
upon  the  Alps  a  petrified  pike  ;  from  which  the  inference  has 
been  drawn  that  the  sea  and  the  rivers  have  flowed  by  turns 
over  the  mountains.  It  were  more  natural  to  suppose  that 
these  fish,  carried  by  a  traveler  and  becoming  spoiled,  were 
thrown  away,  and,  in  the  course  of  time,  were  petrified.  But 
that  idea  was  too  simple  and  too  little  systematic.  An  an- 
chor, they  say,  was  found  upon  a  mountain  of  Switzerland  ; 
people  do  not  reflect  that  heavy  burdens,  particularly  cannon, 
have  often  been  transported  in  men's  arms,  and  that  an  anchor 
may  have  served  to  hang  those  burdens  to  a  cleft  in  the 
rocks.     It  is  very  probable  that  this  anchor  was  taken  from 


374  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

one  of  the  little  ports  of  Lake  Geneva.  Finally,  the  story  of 
the  anchor  may  be  fabulous ;  and  men  like  better  to  declare 
that  it  was  the  anchor  of  a  vessel  which  was  moored  in  Swit- 
zerland before  the  deluge." 

He  discourses  amusingly  upon  the  question  how  a  universal 
flood  was  brought  about  which  covered  the  highest  mountains, 
and  required  a  quantity  of  water  equal  to  twenty-four  oceans. 
"  Science,"  he  says,  "has  nothing  in  common  with  miracles. 
Religion  commands  us  to  believe  them,  and  reason  forbids  us 
to  explain  them."  Dr.  Burnet,  he  adds,  conjectured  that  the 
ocean  was  swollen  to  that  prodigious  height  by  boiling ;  but 
no,  that  could  not  be;  for  water  in  boiling  does  not  increase 
more  than  a  quarter  in  bulk.  "  To  what  a  point  we  are 
reduced  when  we  attempt  to  fathom  what  we  ought  only  to 
respect !  "  Twenty  years  later,  when  a  great  number  of 
marine  deposits  had  been  found  far  above  the  level  of  the 
sea,  he  still  demands  proof  that  they  were  marine  deposits. 
Might  they  not  be  snail  shells  ?  he  asks.  To  such  a  point  is 
an  author  reduced  who  discusses  a  geological  question  before 
geology  exists ! 

During  the  rest  of  his  life,  though  he  gradually  discontinued 
his  more  laborious  investigations  in  science,  he  was  an  atten- 
tive student  of  nature.  His  essay  of  1768,  on  "  Some  Singu- 
larities of  Nature,"  shows  that  the  habit  of  his  mind  was  to 
observe  and  reflect  upon  the  natural  facts  within  his  view. 
If  he  had  lived  in  our  day,  he  would  have  subscribed  to  the 
scientific  periodicals,  and  kept  them  well  supplied  with  the 
shoi't  articles  their  conductors  love  to  receive,  such  as  relate 
something  new  about  bees,  coral,  snails,  toads,  or  oysters,  or 
give  new  conjectures  concerning  the  formation  of  mountains, 
seas,  lakes,  stone,  and  shells.  His  interest  in  nature  was  gen- 
uine and  lasting.  When  there  were  no  visitors  at  the  chateau, 
natural  science  appears  to  have  furnished  Madame  du  ChS,telet 
and  himself  wdth  their  most  familiar  topics  of  conversation, 
and,  particularly,  the  influence  of  natural  causes  upon  the 
character  and  history  of  nations.  He  had  much  of  what  we 
may  call  the  spirit  of  "  Buckle's  History  of  Civilization  "  in 
him.  We  catch  them  star-gazing,  also,  in  the  memoirs  of  their 
visitors  and  secretaries,  who  were  frequently  invited  to  survey 
the  heavens  through  the  telescope.     If  any  strange  creature 


VOLTAIRE  AND  SCIENCE.  375 

was  exhibited  in  Paris  during  their  visits  to  the  city,  they 
were  of  the  people  who  were  likely  to  examine  it.  He  went 
to  see  an  albino  once,  of  whom  he  has  left  us  a  minute  and 
careful  description.  He  calls  it  a  "  white  Moor,"  and  speaks  of 
it  as  belonging  to  "a  race  inhabiting  the  middle  of  Africa,  near 
the  kingdom  of  Loango."  After  descanting,  as  usual,  upon  the 
blind  credulity  and  obstinate  incredulity  of  men,  he  proceeds  to 
give  a  great  number  of  particulars  of  the  habits  and  character 
of  this  non-existent  race.  He  was  credulous  himself  on  this 
occasion,  because  it  lay  near  his  heart  to  remove  from  pro- 
gressive science  the  stumbling-block  of  the  Adara-and-Eve 
legend,  and  he  was  eager  to  seize  every  chance  of  showing 
that  our  race  could  not  have  sprung  from  a  single  pair. 

On  another  occasion  his  incredulity  proved  useful.  A 
German  chemist  of  Alsace  believed  he  had  found  the  secret  of 
making  saltpetre  at  one  twentieth  the  ordinary  price  of  the 
article,  and  produced  some  gunpowder  made  of  his  saltpetre, 
which  proved  to  be  excellent.  He  offered  to  sell  the  secret 
for  seventeen  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  one  fourth  of 
the  profits  of  the  manufacture  for  twenty  years.  The  con- 
tract was  signed.  The  head  of  the  powder  company  and  a 
chemist  of  repute  came  to  Alsace,  and  the  experiment  was 
performed  before  them  with  some  appearance  of  success. 
The  gentlemen  from  Paris  visited  Voltaire,  and  explained 
their  errand.  He  said  to  the  chief  of  the  powder  company, 
"  If  you  do  not  pay  the  seventeen  hundred  thousand  francs 
until  after  you  have  made  saltpetre,  you  will  keep  your  money 
always."  The  chemist  declared  that  saltpetre  had  been  actu- 
ally made.  "  I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Voltaire.  "  Why 
not?"  "  Men  "  [was  his  reply]  "  make  nothing.  They  unite 
and  disunite  ;  but  it  belongs  only  to  nature  to  make."  The 
German  tried  for  three  months  to  produce  saltpetre,  without 
success.  He  had  found  in  the  ruins  of  some  ancient  stables 
and  cellars  a  small  quantity  of  saltpetre,  which  had  misled 
him  into  the  belief  that  he  could  get  any  required  quantity 
from  the  earth  of  that  region.^ 

1  Des  Singalarites  de  la  Nature,  par  Voltaire.    Chapter  xxii. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

VISITORS   AT  CIREY. 

No  other  man  m  Europe  was  so  attentive  to  what  passed  at 
Cirey  as  the  Prince  Ro^'al  of  Prussia,  whose  passion  for  Vol- 
taire did  not  diminish.  In  the  spring  of  1737  he  announced 
his  purpose  of  sending  as  "  ambassador "  to  Cirey  his  merry 
and  voluble  young  companion,  Kaiserling,  who  would,  as  he 
hoped,  bring  back  to  him  a  treasure  of  unpublished  writings, 
peihaps  even  some  cantos  of  "  La  Pucelle."  "  In  taking  leave 
of  my  little  friend,"  wrote  the  prince,  July  6,  1737,  "  I  said 
to  him,  '  Think  that  you  are  going  to  the  terrestrial  paradise, 

—  to  a  place  a  thousand  times  more  delicious  than  the  island 
of  Calypso ;  that  the  goddess  of  those  haunts  yields  in  no  de- 
gree to  the  beaut}^  of  the  enchantress  of  Telemachus ;  that  you 
will  find  in  her  all  the  charms  of  the  mind,  so  preferable  to 
those  of  the  person  ;  that  this  marvel  occupies  her  leisure  in 
the  search  after  truth.  There  it  is  that  you  will  see  the  hu- 
man spirit  in  its  last  degree  of  perfection,  —  wisdom  without 
austerity,  enlivened  by  love  and  laughter.  There  you  will 
see  on  the  one  hand  the  sublime  Voltaire,  and  on  the  other 
the  amiable  author  of  "  Le  Mondain  ; "  him  who  now  soars 
above  Newton,  and  now  without  abasement  sings  of  Phyllis. 
How,  my  dear  Cesarion,  shall  we  be  able  to  tear  j'ou  away 
from  a  retreat  so  full  of  charms?  Against  such  attractions 
bow  weak  will  be  the  bonds  of  an  old  friendship  ! '  " 

He  arrived  at  the  chateau,  bearing  a  portrait  of  the  prince 
for  Voltaire,  an  elegant  writing-desk  of  amber  for  madame, 
an  installment  of  M.  Wolf's  "  Metaphysics  "  for  both,  a 
glowing  letter  of  twenty  pages,  a  packet  of  verses,  and  some 
German  books.  He  had  the  warmest  welcome,  and  such  en- 
tertainment as  no  palace  in  Europe  could  then  have  afforded, 

—  tragedies,  comedies,  burlesques,  puppets,  the  magic-lantern, 
music,  fetes,   the  society  of    a  woman  skilled  in  the  agree- 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  377 

able  arts,  and  the  conversation  of  the  most  amusing  man 
alive.  "  Madame,"  as  Voltaire  wrote  to  Thieriot,  "  received 
him  so  well,  gave  him  such  agreeable  fetes^  with  such  an  easy- 
grace,  with  so  little  of  the  fuss  and  fatigue  of  2^  fete,  forced  him 
to  accept  extremely  pretty  presents  in  a  manner  so  noble  and 
so  adroit,  that  he  returned  enchanted  with  everything  he  had 
seen,  heard,  and  received."  He  did,  indeed.  He  told  his 
prince  that  when  Madame  du  Chatelet  talked  he  loved  her 
mind,  and  when  she  was  silent  he  was  enamored  of  her  per- 
son. Cesarion,  too,  made  an  agreeable  impression,  a  fluent, 
vivacious  young  man,  who  "  spoke  all  languages,  and  some- 
times spoke  them  all  at  once." 

Prussians  then  looked  to  Frederic  with  longing  and  enthusi- 
asm, weary  of  the  arbitrary  drunkard,  his  father ;  and  Cesa- 
rion was  of  course  full  of  the  prince's  praises,  not  unmindful 
of  his  hope  one  day  to  "  possess  "  Voltaire.  "  Our  prince 
[said  he]  at  present  is  not  rich,  and  he  is  unwilling  to  borrow, 
because,  as  he  says,  he  is  mortal,  and  he  is  not  sure  that  his 
father  would  pay  his  debts."  But  nothing  was  more  cer- 
tain than  that  he  would  recompense  with  striking  liberality 
any  one  who  should  be  in  his  service  without  being  his  sub- 
ject. Upon  hearing  this,  Voltaire  extolled  his  friend  Thie- 
riot in  terms  which,  it  is  to  be  feared,  were  not  justified  by 
events. 

Kaiserling  took  home  with  him  a  huge  and  rare  bundle  of 
manuscript, — parts  of  "Louis  XIV.,"  many  short  poems, 
some  tracts  and  treatises  upon  philosophy,  besides  new  editions 
of  former  works;  but  not  a  canto,  not  a  line,  of  "La  Pu- 
celle  "  !  Madame  la  Marquise  put  down  her  foot;  she  would 
not  risk  her  poet  again,  so  soon  after  the  mishap  of  "Le 
Mondain,"  for  the  best  prince  in  Christendom  !  She  had  the 
poem  in  custody,  locked  in  her  desk,  and  she  would  not  sur- 
render it.  "  The  friendship  with  which  she  honors  me  [wrote 
Voltaire  to  Frederic]  does  not  permit  me  to  hazard  a  thing 
which  might  separate  me  from  her  forever.  She  has  re- 
nounced   all    to    live  with  me    in  the  bosom  of    retreat  and 

study She  knows  that  M.  de  Kaiserling  was  watched 

at  Strasbourg,  that  he  will  be  again  on  his  return,  that  spies 
are  after  him,  that  he  may  be  searched  ;  and,  above  all,  she 
knows  that    you  would    not  willingly  risk    the  happiness  of 


378  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIKE. 

your  true  subjects  at  Cirey  for  a  pleasantry  in  verse."  After 
an  intoxicating  visit  of  something  less  than  a  month,  the 
Baron  de  Kaiserling  returned  to  Remusburg  to  inflame  anew 
his  prince's  admiration  for  the  inhabitants  of  the  enchanted 
castle. 

It  was  not  every  visitor  who  saw  the  interior  of  that  abode 
in  so  rosy  a  light. 

M.  Mignot,  husband  of  Voltaire's  sister,  died  in  1737,  leav- 
ing two  marriageable  daughters  with  insufficient  portions. 
Voltaire  played  the  part  of  a  good  French  uncle  on  this  oc- 
casion, and  set  Thieriot  at  work  arranging  for  their  honorable 
marriage,  undertaking  to  provide  for  the  elder  both  husband 
and  dot.  The  husband  whom  Voltaire  proposed  for  her  was 
a  son  of  Madame  Champbonin,  a  jovial  dame  who  lived  near 
Cirey,  and  much  enlivened  the  society  of  the  neighborhood,  — 
a  great  favorite  everywhere,  and  extremely  beloved  by  him. 
"  God  forbid  [he  wrote  to  Thieriot]  that  I  should  in  the  least 
constrain  her  inclinations.  To  aim  at  the  liberty  of  a  fellow 
creature  appears  to  me  a  crime  against  humanity  ;  it  is  the 
sin  against  nature."  The  young  lady,  a  true  child  of  Paris, 
pupil  of  the  composer  Rameau,  accustomed  to  the  gayeties  of 
the  metropolis,  was  not  disposed  to  "bury  herself  "  in  a  coun- 
try chateau.  He  was  disappointed,  but  yielded  with  the 
better  grace  because  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  sound  his 
niece  before  taking  any  other  step.  "  After  all  [he  wrote  to 
Thieriot],  I  have  really  no  family  but  them,  and  I  should  be 
very  glad  to  attach  them  to  me.  It  is  necessary  to  bear  in 
mind  that  we  become  old,  infirm,  and  that  then  it  is  sweet 
to  find  relatives  attached  to  us  by  gratitude.  If  they  marry 
bourgeois  of  Paris,  I  am  their  very  humble  servant,  but  they 
are  lost  to  me.  It  is  a  sorry  thing  to  be  an  old  maid.  The 
princesses  of  the  blood  find  it  very  troublesome  to  endure  a 
condition  contrary  to  nature.  We  are  born  to  have  children. 
It  is  only  certain  fools  of  philosophers,  like  ourselves,  who  can 
decently  avoid  the  general  rule." 

The  result  of  much  negotiation  was  that  Mademoiselle 
Mignot,  aged  twenty-seven,  married,  February  25,  1738,  the 
man  of  her  choice,  M.  Denis,  formerly  a  captain  in  a  French 
regiment,  then  holding  an  office  in  the  commissariat.  Uncle 
Voltaire  gave  the  pair  his  blessing,  an  invitation  to  pass  the 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  379 

honeymoon  at  Cirey,  and  thirty  thousand  francs,  all  of  which 
they  accepted.  The  younger  lady,  four  months  after,  married 
Nicholas-Joseph  de  Dompierre,  seigneur  of  Fontaine-Hornoy, 
chief  of  the  finance  bureau  at  Amiens.  They  were  called  sim- 
ply M.  and  jNIadame  de  Fontaine,  and  the  uncle  of  the  bride 
gave  her  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 

These  young  ladies  had  another  uncle,  Voltaire's  "  Jansen- 
ist  of  a  brother,"  now  styled  by  his  friends  tlie  Abbe  Arouet. 
He,  too,  behaved  liberally  to  them.  Besides  attending  both 
weddings,  he  gave  the  elder  niece  so  handsome  a  present 
(amount  unknown)  that  Madame  du  Chatelet  wished  that  all 
her  uncles  and  aunts  had  &iven  her  as  much  on  her  wedding-- 
day.  Armand  Arouet  was  still  an  assiduous  convulsionist, 
unmarried,  wholly  estranged  from  the  author  of  the  "  Mon- 
dain,"  who  suspected  his  austere  brother  of  a  secret  marriage, 
and  mentions  that  he  chose  his  mistresses  from  amonor  the 
prettiest  convulsionists.  Voltaire  could  not  be  tempted  to  at- 
tend either  of  the  weddings,  where,  as  he  said,  there  would  be 
"  crowds  of  relations,  quibbling  puns,  flat  jests,  broad  stories 
to  make  the  bride  blush  and  the  prudes  purse  their  lips,  a 
great  noise,  all  talking  together,  giggling  without  merriment, 
heavy  kisses  heavily  given,  and  little  girls  looking  at  every- 
thing out  of  the  corner  of  their  eyes."  No  such  wedding  could 
draw  liim  from  an  enchanted  castle  in  the  country  to  the  street 
of  the  Two  Balls  at  Paris. 

But  Madame  Denis  and  her  husband  visited  a  rich  and  lib- 
eral uncle  at  Cirey,  in  March,  1738.  The  bride  saw  in  the 
chateau  an  enchanted  castle  indeed,  but  enchanted  only  as  the 
oak-tree  was  enchanted  that  held  Ariel  in  its  gnarled  and 
knotted  embrace.  The  future  mistress  of  Ferney  was  aghast 
at  her  uncle's  bondage. 

"I  am  in  despair  [she  wrote  to  match-maker  Tliieriot].  I  be- 
lieve him  lost  to  all  his  friends.  He  is  bound  in  such  a  way  that  it 
appears  to  me  impossible  that  he  can  break  his  chains.  They  are  in 
a  solitude  that  is  frightful  for  humanity.  Cirey  is  four  leagues  from 
a  habitation,  in  a  region  of  mountains  and  wastes ;  and  they  are  aban- 
doned by  all  their  friends,  having  almost  no  one  from  Paris.  Such  is 
the  life  led  by  the  greatest  genius  of  our  age ;  with  a  woman,  it  is 
true,  of  much  intellect,  very  pretty,  who  employs  all  the  art  imagina- 
ble to  beguile  him.     There  is  no  kind  of  personal  decoration  which 


380  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIKE. 

she  does  not  arrange,  nor  passages  of  the  best  philosophers  which  she 
does  not  cite,  to  please  him.  To  that  end  nothing  is  spared.  He  ap- 
pears more  enchanted  with  her  than  ever.  He  is  building  a  handsome 
addition  to  the  chateau,  in  which  there  will  be  a  dark  room  for  experi- 
ments in  natural  philosophy.  The  theatre  is  very  pretty,  but  they  do 
not  use  it  for  want  of  actors.  All  the  actors  of  the  country  for  ten 
miles  round  are  under  orders  to  come  to  the  chateau.  They  did  all 
that  was  possible  to  have  them  there  during  our  stay ;  but  they  could 
only  exhibit  to  us  some  puppets,  which  were  very  good.  We  were 
received  in  perfect  style.  My  uncle  tenderly  loves  M.  Denis  ;  which 
does  not  astonish  me,  for  he  is  very  amiable."  ^ 

Madame  Denis  was  not  so  far  wrong.  There  was  a  flaw  in 
the  bond  between  these  two  gifted  and  brilliant  persons  which 
of  necessity  vitiated  their  union,  making  each  a  kind  of  slave 
to  the  other.  She  was  always  in  dread  of  his  breaking  away ; 
and  he  was  prevented  from  doing  so  by  compassion  and  the 
instinct  of  fidelity.  He  should  have  lived  in  bis  own  chateau, 
and  the  family  inhabiting  that  chateau  should  have  been  his 
family,  not  another  man's. 

Another  visitor  of  the  year  1738  makes  this  plainer.  Ma- 
dame de  Grafigny  was  a  lady  whom  Voltaire  and  Madame  du 
Chatelet  had  met  at  the  little  court  of  King  Stanislas  in  Lor- 
raine, where  she  was  an  object  of  sj'^mpathy  on  account  of  the 
violence  and  brutality  of  her  husband,  chamberlain  to  the 
Duke  of  Lorraine.  After  years  of  misery  she  was  divorced 
from  the  chamberlain,  who  ended  his  days  in  prison.  The  in- 
mates of  Cirey  offered  her  an  asylum  for  a  time,  and  in  De- 
cember, 1738,  she  came.  She  was  then  forty-three  years  of 
age,  unknown  to  fame ;  for  it  was  not  till  she  was  fifty-two 
that  the  publication  of  her  romance,  "  Lettres  d'une  P^ru- 
vienne,"  gave  her  celebrity.  Her  portrait  shows  us  a  hand- 
some, full-formed  woman,  "  fair,  fat,  and  forty,"  and  her  writ- 
ings are,  as  Sainte-Beuve  styles  them,  cailletage  (gossip). 
During  her  residence  at  Cirey  she  wrote  quires  of  cailletage  to 
a  gentleman  at  Luneville,  where  the  fallen  majesty  of  Poland 
spent  his  French  allowance.  A  volume  of  these  letters  was 
published  in  1820,  in  which  we  can  see  the  routine  of  life  at 
the  chateau  almost  as  plainly  as  if  we  had  been  femme  de 
chambre  to  the  writer ;  since,  in  accordance  with  the  custom 

1  Voltaire,  Pieces  Inedites.    Paris,  1820,  page  289. 


I 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  381 

of  that  age  and  land,  she  wrote  as  freely  to  a  man  as  she  could 
have  gossiped  with  a  woman.^ 

Like  Kaiserling,  she  was  under  the  spell  long  before  she 
reached  the  enchanted  abode.  Besides  the  singular  favor  in 
which  the  poet  was  held  at  the  Polish  court,  the  most  extrav- 
agant accounts  had  been  brought  thither  of  the  splendors  of 
the  chateau,  the  mysterious  life  led  in  it,  the  wizard  appara- 
tus, the  dark  chamber,  the  magician-like  habits  of  the  poet, 
and  the  unearthly  fascinations  of  the  lady  of  the  castle.  A 
burlesque  in  this  taste  had  been  published  in  Paris,  and  the 
chateau  was  a  theme  at  the  burlesque  theatres.  Kaiserling 
came  enchanted,  stayed  three  weeks,  and  went  away  en- 
chanted. Madame  de  Grafigny  came  enchanted,  stayed  three 
months,  and  left  disenchanted. 

She  relates  her  arrival  at  Cirey  to  her  corresj)ondent,  who 
was  also  under  the  spell :  — 

"  Upon  seeing  the  address  of  this  letter,  you  leap  with  joy,  and 
you  say :  Ah !  Mon  Dieu,  she  is  at  Cireij !  I  started  before  day- 
light ;  I  was  present  at  the  toilet  of  the  sun.  I  had  admirable 
weather  and  roads  as  far  as  Joinville,  just  as  in  summer,  even  to  the 
dust,  which  one  could  do  very  well  without.  I  reached  Joinville 
in  a  little  chaise  of  Madame  Royale  [Duchess  de  Lorraine]  but 
there  the  coachman  told  me  that  it  was  impossible  they  could  go 
further.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  took  a  post-chaise.  I  arrived  at 
Cirey  two  hours  after  dark,  dying  of  fright  from  the  state  of  the 
roads,  which  the  devil  had  made  horrible,  expecting  every  moment  to 
be  overturned ;  paddling  in  the  mud  sometimes,  for  the  postilions 
told  me  that  if  I  did  not  alight  I  should  be  overturned.  Judjre  of 
my  condition !  However,  I  arrived.  The  nymph  received  me  very 
well.  I  remained  a  moment  in  her  chamber,  then  went  up  to  my 
own  to  rest.  A  moment  after  arrived,  who  ?  Your  idol,  holding  a 
little  candlestick  in  his  hand,  like  a  monk.  He  caressed  me  a  thou- 
sand times  ;  he  appeared  so  glad  to  see  me  that  his  demonstrations 
went  even  to  transport ;  he  kissed  my  hands  ten  times,  and  questioned 
me  about  myself  with  a  very  touching  air  of  interest.  At  last  he 
went  away  in  order  to  give  me  an  opportunity  to  write  to  you 

"  I  left  my  letter  to  dress,  for  fear  the  supper-bell  should  ring.  I 
hear  nothing  of  it,  and  so  I  am  going  to  add  a  word  or  two.  You  are 
astonished,  perhaps,  that  I  say,  simply,  the  nymph  received  me  very 

1  Vie  Prive'e  de  Voltaire  et  Madame  du  Chatelct  pendant  un  Sdjour  de  six 
Mois  a  Cirey.     Paris,  1820. 


882  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

well  ;  it  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you.  No  ;  I  forgot  that  she  spoke  to  me 
at  once  of  her  lawsuit,  without  any  ceremony.  Her  clack  [_cnquet] 
is  wonderful  ;  she  speaks  extremely  fast,  and  just  as  I  do  when  I  play 
the  Frenchwoman.  She  talks  like  an  angel ;  so  much  I  perceived. 
She  had  on  a  robe  of  chintz  and  a  large  apron  of  black  taffeta ;  her 
black  hair  is  very  long,  and  it  is  gathered  up  behind  to  the  top  of  her 
head,  and  curled  like  that  of  little  children,  which  is  very  becoming 
to  her.  As  I  have  seen  nothing  yet  except  her  dress,  I  can  speak  to 
you  of  nothing  but  her  dress.  With  regard  to  your  idol,  I  know  not 
if  he  powdered  himself  for  my  sake,  but  all  I  can  tell  you  is  that  he 
was  dressed  as  he  would  have  beeu  at  Paris.  The  goudman  [M. 
du  Chatelet]  leaves  to-morrow  for  Brussels,  when  we  three  shall  be 
alone  ;  and  no  one  will  shed  any  tears  on  account  of  it :  that  is  a 
secret  which  we  have  already  imparted  to  one  another." 

The  summons  to  supper  here  interrupted  the  epistle.  To 
understand  the  account  she  gives  of  the  conversation  at  the 
table,  the  reader  needs  to  be  informed  that  Voltaire's  feud 
■with  the  poet  J.  B.  Rousseau  was  assuming  more  importance, 
and  was  both  complicated  and  embittered  by  a  quarrel  with 
the  journalist  Desfontaines,  editor  of  the  "  Observations,"  re- 
ferred to  in  the  course  of  the  repast.  As  we  shall  be  obliged 
very  soon  to  return  to  this  affair,  and  show  how  authors  and 
critics  loved  one  another  a  hundred  and  forty  years  ago,  it  is 
only  necessary  here  to  say  that  Voltaire  at  this  time  was  gun- 
powder to  any  spark  of  allusion  to  Rousseau  or  Desfontaines. 
Madame  de  Grafigny  describes  her  first  meal  at  the  cha- 
teau :  — 

"  I  was  conducted  to  a  suite  of  apartments  which  I  recognized  at 
once  to  be  Voltaire's.  He  came  to  receive  me.  No  one  else  had 
arrived,  and  yet  I  had  not  the  time  to  cast  a  glance  around  the  room. 
The  company  placed  themselves  at  the  table,  and  well  content  was 
I ;  and  all  the  more  when  I  compared  this  supper  with  my  evening 
adventure  on  the  road.  What  a  thing  is  life !  said  I  to  myself.  A 
little  while  asro  in  darkness  and  mire  ;  now  in  an  enchanted  place. 
What  is  there  that  we  did  not  speak  of?  Poetry,  science,  art;  all  m 
the  tone  of  badinage  and  good  breeding.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to 
report  to  you  that  charming  conversation,  that  enchanting  conversa- 
tion ;  but  it  is  not  in  me  to  do  so.  The  supper  was  not  abundant,  but 
it  was  rare,  elegant,  and  delicate  ;  served,  also,  with  a  profusion  of 
silver  plate.  Opposite  me  I  had  five  globes  and  all  the  philosophical 
apparatus  ;  for  it  was  in  the  little  hall  that  we  enjoyed  this  unique 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  38 


o 


repast.  Voltaire  by  my  side,  as  polite,  as  attentive,  as  he  is  amiable 
and  learned ;  the  lord  of  the  castle  on  the  other  side.  This  is  to  be 
my  place  every  evening :  thus  my  left  ear  will  be  sweetly  charmed, 
while  the  other  is  very  slightly  bored ;  for  the  marquis  says  little, 
and  goes  away  as  soon  as  we  leave  the  table.  At  the  dessert  comes 
the  perfume ;  conversation  as  instructive  as  agreeable.  They  spoke 
of  books,  as  you  may  well  believe,  and  J.  B.  Rousseau  was  a  topic. 
Oh,  by  our  Lady  !  then  the  man  remained,  and  the  hero  vanished.  He 
would  scarcely  pardon  any  one  who  should  praise  Rousseau.  At  last 
the  conversation  turned  upon  the  various  kinds  of  poetry.  '  For  my 
part,'  said  the  lady,  '  odes  [Rousseau  wrote  many]  I  cannot  endure.' 
'Ah,  indeed!'  said,  your  idol;  'what  is  an  ode?  It  is  the  most 
trifling  merit  to  compose  one.  Fustian,  rhapsodies,  in  the  style  of 
Hudibras  ;  it  is  the  most  execrable  thing  in  the  world.  I  do  not  com- 
prehend how  honest  people  read  such  things.' 

"  Is  not  there  the  man  ?  I  know  not  how  he  came  to  speak  of  the 
'  Observations  '  of  Desfontaines.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  sent  for  them. 
*  Yes,'  said  he ;  and  all  at  once  he  launched  invectives  against  the 
author  and  against  the  work.  He  gave  me  a  pamphlet  to  read,  en- 
titled '  A  Preservative  against  the  Observations '  (Voltaire's  own), 
which  he  pretends  was  written  by  one  of  his  friends.  I  believe  that 
he  could  not  speak  of  Rousseau  and  Desfontaines  without  a  fermenta- 
tion of  the  blood  equivalent  to  fever.  But  as  it  seized  him  we  retired 
in  order  to  let  him  go  to  bed. 

"  I  have  read  that  '  Preservative,'  for  it  was  very  necessary  that  I 
should  be  able  to  say  that  I  had  read  it.  In  sending  to  ask  how  I  was, 
Voltaire  j^resented  to  me  a  beautiful  Newton,  bound  in  morocco.  As 
I  do  not  dine  to-day,  I  began  to  read  Newton,  instead  of  writing  to 
you.  Yes,  my  friend,  instead  of  writing  to  yon,  although  I  was  dying 
of  desire  to  write  ;  but  you  will  feel  how  necessary  it  is  that  I  should 
show  a  little  eagerness  in  recognizing  the  polite  and  honorable  atten- 
tion of  your  idol,  and  to  be  able  to  speak  to  him  of  the  work  in  the 
evening." 

Tlie  next  day  Madame  de  Grafigny  liad  the  pleasure  of  in- 
specting Voltaire's  rooms,  and  penned  a  glowing  account  of 
them  to  her  friend  :  — 

"  Voltaire  made  me  a  little  visit.  I  drove  him  out,  because  my  room 
is  very  chilly,  and  he  had  a  very  bad  cold.  To  diive  out  Voltaire ! 
Ah,  Dieu!  you  find  that  a  very  strong  expression,  and  so  it  is ;  but  it 
is  thus  that  we  become  familiar  with  great  men  when  we  live  with  them. 
Then  came  in  the  lord  of  the  castle  (not  yet  gone  to  Brussels),  who 
bored  me  pitilessly  for  two  hours  and  a  half.     At  last,  Voltaire,  haK 


884  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

an  hour  before  supper,  got  me  away  by  sending  me  a  message  that, 
since  I  was  unwilling  he  should  remain  in  my  chamber,  I  should  take 
the  trouble  of  soingf  down  to  his.  I  did  not  hold  out  asrainst  this  in- 
vitation,  and  I  descended  at  once.  I  had  only  seen  his  rooms  in  pass- 
ing, but  now  he  made  me  admire  them,  and  I  will  give  you  a  descrip- 
tion of  them. 

"  His  little  wing:  is  so  close  to  the  chateau  that  the  door  of  it  is 
at  the  bottom  of  the  grand  staircase.  There  is,  first,  a  small  ante- 
chamber, as  large  as  your  hand ;  then  comes  his  bedroom,  which  is 
small,  low,  and  hung  with  crimson  velvet,  with  an  alcove  (for  the  bed) 
of  the  same,  set  off  with  gold  fringe.  That  is  the  furniture  for  winter. 
There  is  little  tapestry  in  his  rooms,  but  a  great  deal  of  wainscoting, 
in  which  are  framed  some  charming  pictures.  There  are  mirrors, 
brackets  of  admirable  enamel,  porcelains,  a  clock  sustained  by  gro- 
tesque figures  ;  a  world  of  things  of  that  nature,  costly,  rare,  and,  above 
all,  so  spotlessly  clean  that  you  could  kiss  the  floor.  There  is  an  open 
case  containing  a  service  of  silver ;  there  is  everything  which  the  su- 
perjlu,  chose  si  necessm're,  has  been  able  to  devise.  And  what  silver  ! 
.what  workmanship  !  There  is  a  casket  containing  twelve  rings  of  cut 
stone,  besides  two  of  diamonds.  From  this  room  we  pass  into  the  lit- 
tle hall,  which  is  not  more  than  thirty  or  forty  feet  in  length.  Be- 
tween the  windows  are  two  extremely  beautiful  statuettes  upon  pedes- 
tals of  Indian  lacquer :  one  is  the  Venus  Farnese,  the  other  Hercules. 
The  other  side  of  the  windows  is  occupied  by  two  cases  :  one  for  books, 
and  one  for  the  apparatus.  Between  the  two  cases  there  is  a  stove 
in  the  wall,  which  renders  the  air  like  that  of  spring.  In  front  of  I 
the  stove  is  a  large  pedestal,  upon  which  there  is  a  Cupid  of  some 
magnitude  who  is  discharging  an  arrow,  —  an  unfinished  work,  for  they  ; 

are  making  a  sculjotured  niche  for  that  Cupid  which  will  conceal  the 
stove  entirely.     The  following  is  the  inscription  below  this  Cupid :  —  |. 

'  Whoe'er  thou  art,  thy  master  he,  U 

He  is,  or  was,  or  ought  to  be.' 

"  The  gallery  is  wainscoted  and  varnished  light  yellow.  Clocks, 
tables,  bureaus,  —  I  need  not  say  that  nothing  of  that  kind  is  want- 
ing. Beyond  is  the  dark  chamber,  which  is  not  yet  finished ;  nor  is 
the  one  completed  where  he  intends  to  put  his  apparatus ;  and  this  is 
the  reason  why  it  is  all  now  in  the  hall.  There  is  but  a  single  sofa, 
and  no  commodious  arm-chairs ;  I  mean  that  the  few  which  are  there 
are  good,  but  there  are  no  stuffed  arm-chairs,  —  bodily  ease  not  being 
his  luxury,  as  it  seems.  The  panels  of  the  wainscot  are  of  India  paper, 
extremely  beautiful ;  the  screens  are  of  the  same.  There  are  writing- 
tables,  porcelains,  and  all  in  a  taste  extremely  elegant.  There  is  one 
door  which  opens  into  the  garden,  and  outside  of  the  door  is  a  very 


VISITORS   AT  CIREY.  385 

pretty  grotto.     You  will  be  very  glad,  I  think,  to  have  an  idea  of  the 
temple  of  your  idol,  since  you  cannot  see  it." 

On  the  following  day  the  guest  had  an  opportunity  to  ex- 
amine the  rooms  of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  which  astonished 
her  exceedingly. 

"  To-day  I  came  down  at  eleven  o'clock  for  coffee,  which  is  taken 
in  the  new  hall.  Voltaire  was  in  his  dressing-gown,  but  he  has  a  very 
bad  cold.  We  did  not  go  to  mass,  for  it  is  not  a  fete  day  here.  They 
spoke  of  the  eternal  lawsuit  during  the  whole  breakfast,  which  lasted 
an  hour  and  a  half.  Voltaire  began  to  write,  and  we  —  the  lady  of  the 
castle  and  myself  —  went  into  her  part  of  the  chateau  to  see  it,  because 
I  had  not  yet  examined  it.  Voltaire's  rooms  are  nothing  in  compari- 
son with  hers.  Her  bedroom  is  wainscoted  in  light  yellow,  and  var- 
nished with  light  blue  mouldings ;  an  alcove  for  the  bed  of  the  same, 
lined  with  charming  paper  of  India.  The  bed  is  of  watered  blue  silk, 
and  the  whole  is  so  assorted  that,  even  to  the  basket  for  her  dog,  all  is 
yellow  and  blue  ;  the  wood  of  the  arm-chairs,  also,  the  desk,  bureau,  and 
brackets.  The  mirrors  and  their  silver  frames  are  of  an  admirable 
brilliancy.  A  great  door  of  plate-glass  opens  into  the  library,  which  is 
not  yet  finished.  The  carving  is  as  fine  as  that  of  a  snuff-box  ;  nothing 
can  be  prettier  than  the  whole  effect.  There  are  to  be  mirrors  in  this 
room,  and  pictures  by  Paul  Veronese  and  others.  On  one  side  of  the 
alcove  for  the  bed  is  a  little  boudoir,  so  exquisite  that,  on  entering 
it,  one  is  ready  to  fall  upon  one's  knees.  The  walls  of  this  boudoir 
are  blue,  and  the  ceiling  was  painted  and  varnished  by  a  pupil  of  Mar- 
tin, who  has  been  here  three  years.  All  the  small  panels  are  filled 
with  pictures  by  Watteau  :  the  Five. Senses,  the  Two  Tales  of  La  Fon- 
taine, tlie  Kiss  Taken  and  Returned,  of  which  I  have  the  two  engrav- 
ings, and  Brother  Philip's  Geese.  Ah,  what  pictures  !  The  frames  are 
gilt  and  filigree.  I  saw  there  also  the  Three  Graces,  as  beautiful  and 
lovely  as  the  mother  of  the  tender  Cupids.  There  is  a  fire-place  with 
brackets  by  Martin,  with  some  pretty  things  upon  them,  among  others 
an  amber  writing-desk,  wliich  the  Prince  of  Prussia  sent  her  with  some 
verses.  The  only  furniture  is  a  large  arm-chair  stuffed  in  white  taffeta, 
and  two  stools  to  match ;  for,  thanks  be  to  God,  I  have  not  seen  one 
couch  in  all  the  house.  This  divine  boudoir  has  a  single  window, 
which  looks  out  upon  a  charming  terrace  and  an  admirable  view.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  alcove  is  a  garde  robe,  divine,  paved  with  marble, 
wainscoted  in  linen-gray,  with  the  prettiest  engravings.  Indeed,  the 
very  muslin  curtains  of  the  windows  are  bordered  with  exquisite  taste. 
No  ;  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  pretty  ! 

"  After  having  examined  the  rooms  we  remained  in  her  chamber. 

VOL.  I.  25 


386  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

She  then  related  to  me  the  history  of  that  lawsuit  of  hers,  from  its 
origin,  about  eighty  years  ago,  down  to  the  present  day.  This  little 
conversation  lasted  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half,  and,  strange  to  say, 
it  did  not  fatigue  me.  That,  however,  was  natural  enough ;  she  talks 
80  well  that  ennui  has  not  time  to  get  a  hearing.  She  also  showed  me 
her  jewel-case,  which  is  more  beautiful  than  that  of  Madame  de  Riche- 
lieu. I  do  not  cease  wondering  at  it,  for  when  she  was  at  Craon  she 
had  only  one  shell  snuff-box  ;  now  she  has  fifteen  or  twenty  of  gold  and 
precious  stones,  as  well  as  some  of  enamel  and  enameled  gold,  a  new 
mode,  whicli  must  be  of  very  high  price ;  as  many  navetles  of  the  same 
kind,  each  more  magnificent  than  the  rest ;  watches  of  jasper  adorned 
with  diamonds;  some  elegant  boxes,  immense  things.  She  has  also 
rings  of  rare  stones,  and  trinkets  without  end  and  of  all  kinds.  In 
fact,  I  still  wonder  at  it,  for  her  family  has  never  been  rich." 

Madame  de  Grafigny's  own  room  was  in  dismal  contrast  to 
these  splendors :  — 

"  But  you  must  know  what  sort  of  a  chamber  I  have.  In  height 
and  size  it  is  a  hall,  where  all  the  winds  disport,  entering  by  a  thou- 
sand crevices  around  the  window,  which  I  will  have  stopped  if  God 
gives  me  life.  This  immense  room  has  but  a  single  window,  cut  into 
three,  according  to  the  ancient  fashion,  having  no  protection  except  six 
shutters.  The  wainscoting,  which  is  whitish,  lessens  a  little  the  gloom 
of  the  apartment,  dim  from  the  little  light  that  enters  it,  and  the  nar- 
rowness of  the  view ;  for  an  arid  mountain,  which  I  could  almost 
touch  with  my  hand,  masks  it  completely.  At  the  foot  of  this  mount- 
ain is  a  little  meadow,  perhaps  fifty  feet  wide,  upon  which  a  little 
stream  is  seen  creeping  with  a  thousand  turns.  The  tapestry  is  of 
grand  personages  unknown  to  me,  and  ugly  enough.  There  is  an  al- 
cove hung  with  very  rich  cloths,  but  unpleasing  to  the  sight  through 
their  ill-assorted  colors.  As  to  the  fire-place,  there  is  nothing  to  say 
of  it  ;  it  is  of  such  dimensions  that  all  the  snbat  could  be  within  range 
at  the  same  moment.  We  burn  in  it  about  half  a  cord  of  wood  every 
day,  without  in  the  least  mollifying  the  air  of  the  room In- 
deed, except  the  apartments  of  the  lady  and  Voltaire,  the  chateau  is 
dirty  enough  to  disgust  one.  From  the  window,  the  gardens  appear 
to  be  beautiful." 

The  guest  had  not  been  long  at  Cirey  before  she  witnessed 
a  tiff  between  the  lovers  :  — 

"  About  four  in  the  afternoon,  as  I  was  reading,  I  was  sent  for  to 
come  down-stairs.  I  found  the  lady,  who  was  going  to  bed,  as  she 
was  not  quite  well.     She  said  to  me  that,  as  she  could  not  work.  Vol- 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  387 

taire  was  going  to  read  us  his  tragedy  of  '  M^rope.'  Voltaire  arrives. 
The  hidy  takes  a  fancy  to  make  hina  put  ou  another  coat.  The  one 
he  had  on,  it  is  true,  was  not  very  nice,  but  it  was  well  powdered,  arfd 
had  upon  it  fine  lace.  He  gave  her  many  good  reasons  for  not  chang- 
ing it,  as,  that  it  would  give  him  a  chill,  and  that  he  would  catch 
cold  for  nothing.  At  last,  he  was  obliging  enough  to  send  for  his 
valet  de  chambre,  that  he  might  get  him  another  coat.  The  valet,  at 
the  moment,  could  not  be  found,  and  Voltaire  believed  that  the  subject 
would  be  dropped.  Not  at  all ;  the  persecution  recommenced.  Vi- 
vacity seizes  Voltaire  ;  he  speaks  to  her  warmly  in  English,  and  leaves 
the  room.  Madame  sends,  a  moment  after,  to  call  him  back.  He 
replies  that  he  has  the  colic,  and  behold  '  Merope  '  at  the  devil.  I 
was  furious.  The  lady  begged  me  to  read  aloud  the  dialogues  of 
M.  Algarotti.  I  read  and  laughed,  as  in  the  morning.  At  length,  a 
gentleman  of  the  neighborhood  came  in,  whereupon  I  rose,  saying 
that  1  was  going  to  see  Voltaire.  The  lady  told  me  to  try  and  bring 
him  back.  I  found  him  with  the  lady  who  is  staying  here  [Madame 
Champbonin],  who,  I  may  remark,  seems  to  me  to  be  in  his  confi- 
dence. He  was  in  the  best  humor,  having  forgotten  that  he  had  the 
colic.  We  had  already  talked  a  little  while,  when  the  lady  of  the 
chateau  sent  to  call  us.  At  length  he  went  back  to  her  ;  and  this  man, 
who  had  just  been  laughing  with  us,  resumed  his  ill-humor  on  reen- 
tering her  chamber,  under  the  pretext  of  the  colic.  He  put  himself 
into  a  corner,  and  said  not  a  woi'd.  Some  time  after,  the  neighbor 
went  out,  upon  which  the  pouters  spoke  to  one  another  in  English, 
and,  a  minute  after,  '  Merope  '  appeared  upon  the  scene.  This  is  the 
first  sign  of  love  that  I  have  observed  ;  for  they  behave  with  an  admi- 
rable decency.     But  she  renders  his  life  a  little  hard  \_uii  peic  dure'].^ 

"  I  send  you  this  long  detail  in  order  that  you  may  understand  how 
they  are  together.     At  last,  he  read  two  acts  of  'Merope.'     I  shed 

tears  at  the  first After  the  reading  we  discussed  the  piece  — 

the  lady  and  I  — until  supper-time.  She  does  not  like  it,  and  turns  it 
into  ridicule  as  much  as  she  can  ;  which  little  pleases  poor  Voltaire, 

who  was  like  a  patient,  not  daring  to  join  in  our  discussion 

The  author  was  so  afraid  of  another  quarrel  that  the  little  which  he 
said  was  against  me.  The  supper  was  like  a  supper  of  Luneville  ;  we 
beat  our  sides  for  something  to  say,  and  no  one  said  a  word.  After 
supper  we  looked  at  the  globe,  —  Voltaire,  the  fat  lady,  and  myself; 
for  the  lovely  nymph  spoke  not,  pretending  to  be  asleep. 

"Voltaire  is  always  charming,  and  also  always  occupied  with  my 
amusement.     His  attention  is  unwearying,  and  it  is  evident  that  he  is 
fearful  of  my  becoming  bored.     He  is  nmch  mistaken.     To  be  bored 
^  All  the  italics  in  these  extracts  are  those  of  Madame  de  Grafigny. 


388  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

near  Voltaire  !  Ah,  Dieu!  that  is  not  possible ;  I  have  not  even  the 
leisure  to  think  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  ennui  in  the  world.  I 
have  the  health  of  a  fish-woman,  and  wake  as  easily  as  a  mouse.  Is 
it  because  I  eat  less,  or  because  my  mind  is  so  vividly  and  agreeably 
acted  upon  ?  ....  It  is  a  pleasure  for  me  to  laugh  inwardly  at  their 
fanaticism  for  Newton,  and  to  hear  people  of  the  best  understanding 
utter  imbecilities  [^des  hetises]  dictated  by  prejudice.  I  do  not  dispute, 
as  you  may  believe,  but  I  get  my  profit  from  it  in  a  knowledge  of  the 
human  mind." 

Madame  continued  daily  to  record  incidents  and  traits.     I 
add  a  few  paragraphs  :  — 

"  After  breakfast,  the  goddess  of  these  haunts  took  it  into  her  head 
to  have  a  ride  in  her  caliche.  I  cared  little  to  go,  on  account  of  her 
horses,  which  are  like  ill-governed  children.  At  length,  I  was  so 
much  pressed  that  I  consented  to  go.  But,  ma  fox!  when  I  saw  the 
gambols  of  those  messieurs  I  could  not  muster  the  courage  to  get  into 
the  carriage.  Nevertheless,  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  get  in  but 
for  the  humane  Voltaire,  who  said  that  it  was  ridiculous  to  force  oblig- 
ing people  to  take  pleasures  which  for  them  were  pains.  Adorable 
words,  were  they  not  ?  So  I  remained  at  home  with  our  lady  guest, 
who  is  as  idle  as  I.  We  had  a  walk  together,  and  then  she  took  me 
to  see  the  bath-rooms.  Ah,  what  an  enchanting  place !  The  ante- 
chamber is  of  the  size  of  your  bed ;  the  bath-room  itself  is  entirely 
lined  with  porcelain  tiles,  except  the  pavement,  which  is  marble.  Then 
there  is  a  dressing-room  of  the  same  size,  the  wainscoting  of  which  is 
enameled  with  a  clear,  brilliant  sea-green,  gay,  divine,  admirably  carved 
and  gilt ;  furniture  to  match,  —  a  little  sofa,  charming  little  arm-chairs 
in  the  same  style,  all  carved  and  gilt ;  brackets,  porcelains,  engravings, 
pictures,  and  a  toilet-table  ;  the  ceiling  painted  ;  the  chamber  rich,  and 
equal  to  the  cabinet  in  all  respects,  with  mirrors,  and  amusing  books 
upon  enameled  tables.  Everything  seemed  to  be  made  for  the  people 
of  Lillii^ut.  No  ;  there  is  nothing  there  so  pretty,  so  delicious,  and  so 
enchanting  as  this  place.  If  I  had  a  suite  of  apartments  like  that,  I 
would  have  myself  roused  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  see  it.  The 
fire-place  is  not  larger  than  an  ordinary  arm-chair,  but  it  is  a  jewel  to 

put  in  your  pocket After  supper  Voltaire  gave  us  the  magic 

lantern,  accompanying  the  exhibition  with  words  to  make  you  die  of 
laughter.  He  exhibited  all  the  circle  of  the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  the 
history  of  the  Abbe  Desfontaines,  and  all  sorts  of  tales,  always  in  the 
manner  of  a  Savoyard.     No  ;  there  was  never  anything  so  funny  !  " 

"•  Yesterday  at  supper  Voltaire  was  of  a  charming  gayety.  He  told 
us  some  stories  which  are  not  good  except  from  his  mouth.     He  told 


•I 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  389 

me  some  anecdotes  of  Boileau  that  are  not  in  print.  There  were 
some  impromptu  verses,  also,  which  I  will  send  you  if  he  will  dictate 
them  to  me.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  pleasure  there  is  in  living 
with  such  people.  But  wait ;  I  still  have  something  to  say  to  you. 
This  morning  the  lady  of  the  house  read  us  a  geometrical  calcula- 
tion of  an  English  dreamer,  who  pretends  to  demonstrate  that  the  in- 
habitants of  Jupiter  are  of  the  same  height  as  King  G.,  (sic)  of  whom 
the  Scripture  speaks.  The  book  was  in  Latin,  and  she  read  it  to  us 
in  French.  She  hesitated  a  moment  at  each  period,  and  I  supposed 
that  it  was  to  understand  the  calculations,  which  are  given  at  length 
in  the  book.  Ijut  no ;  she  translated  easily  the  mathematical  terms ; 
the  numbers,  the  extravagances,  nothing  stopped  her.  Is  not  that 
really  astonishing.''  " 

The  Abbe  de  Breteuil,  a  brother  of  Madame  du  Chatelet, 
passed  nine  days  at  the  chateau,  and  during  his  stay  there  were 
gay  doings.  This  gentleman  was  a  genuine  abbe  of  the  period, 
having  nothing  of  the  ecclesiastic  except  his  title  and  revenue. 
Gay  were  the  suppers  now,  for  the  abbd  had  a  true  churchman's 
stock  of  stories  of  the  untranslatable  kind,  which  drew  from 
Voltaire  his  ample  quota ;  and,  between  them,  they  made  Ma- 
dame de  Grafigny  laugh  "to  split  her  spleen,"  as  she  remarked. 
She  gives  some  specimens  of  these  comic  tales,  wliich  serve  to 
show  that  neither  sex,  nor  profession,  nor  rank,  was  a  restraint 
upon  the  license  of  the  tongue  in  those  good  old  times  of  the  rS- 
gime.  They  were  such  stories  as  a  party  of  young  fellows  might 
be  supposed  to  tell  in  the  last  hour  of  a  convivial  party,  in- 
nocent enough,  but  not  repeatable.  Now,  too,  "  La  Pucelle  " 
was  brought  out  from  Madame  du  Chatelet's  desk,  and  the 
author  read  a  canto  or  two  ahnost  every  night  to  the  abbe  and 
the  ladies,  much  to  the  delight  of  Madame  de  Grafigny,  who 
wrote  an  outline  of  each  canto  for  the  amusement  of  her  corre- 
spondent ;  and  he,  in  his  turn,  was  infinitely  entertained  by 
them.  "  The  canto  of  Jeanne  [he  wrote,  in  one  of  his  replies] 
is  charming."  Madame  de  Grafigny  gives  the  routine  of  a  day 
during  the  abbe's  stay  at  the  chateau  :  — 

"Between  half  past  ten  and  half  past  one,  they  summon  every 
one  to  coffee,  which  is  taken  in  Voltaire's  hall.  The  meal  usually 
lasts  an  hour,  more  or  less.  Precisely  at  noon,  the  people  who  are 
called  here  the  coachmen  go  to  dinner.  These  coachmen  are  the  lord 
of  the  castle,  the  fat  lady,   and  her  son ;  the  latter  never  appearing 


390  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

except  when  there  is  something  to  be  copied.  After  coffee,  we  — 
that  is  to  say,  Voltaire,  madame,  and  myself  —  remain  half  an  hour. 
Then  he  makes  us  a  low  bow,  and  tells  us  to  go  away  ;  upon  which 
we  return  to  our  rooms.  Toward  four  o'clock,  sometimes,  we  take 
a  slight  repast.  At  nine  we  sup,  and  remain  together  till  midnight. 
Bien  !  what  suppers  !  They  are  always  the  suppers  of  Damocles.  All 
the  pleasures  are  in  attendance  ;  but,  alas,  how  short  is  the  time  ! 
Oh,  vion  Dieu!  Nothing  is  wanting  to  them,  not  even  the  Dam- 
ocles sword,  which  is  represented  by  the  swift  flight  of  time.  The 
lord  of  the  castle  takes  his  place  at  the  table,  does  not  eat,  falls 
asleep,  consequently  says  not  a  word,  and  goes  out  with  the  tray. 
....  Yesterday,  after  supper,  there  was  a  charming  scene.  Vol- 
taire had  the  pouts  on  account  of  a  glass  of  Rhine  wine  which  ma- 
dame prevented  his  drinking ;  he  would  not  read  Jeanne,  as  he  had 
promised,  being  in  an  extremely  bad  humor.  The  brother  and  my- 
self, by  force  of  pleasantries,  succeeded  at  last  in  restoring  him.  The 
lady,  who  was  also  pouting,  was  unable  to  keep  it  up.  All  this  made 
a  scene  of  delicious  jests,  which  lasted  a  long  time,  finishing  with  a 
canto  of  Jeanne,  which  was  no  better  than  that  scene." 

More  serious  readings  were  given  sometimes,  such  as  Vol- 
taire's "  Epistles  upon  Man ;  "  but,  as  these  poems  contained 
passages  reflecting  more  or  less  openly  upon  Rousseau  and  Des- 
fontaines,  they  were  occasionally  accompanied  by  explosions  of 
what  the  French  politely  call  "  vivacity."  Madame  du  Chatelet 
remarked,  one  morning  at  breakfast,  that,  in  the  Epistle  upon 
Envy,  which  the  poet  had  just  read,  there  was  too  much  about 
Rousseau.  "If  he  \vere  dead  [said  Voltaire],  I  would  have 
him  dug  up  to  hang  him."  Madame  de  Grafigny  deplored  his 
"  fanaticism  "  with  regard  to  these  two  men.  "  I  have  just 
come  [she  writes]  from  a  terrible  conversation  upon  them,  in 
which  we  tried  to  persuade  him  to  despise  them.  Oh,  human 
weakness  !  He  has  neither  rhyme  nor  reason  when  he  speaks 
of  them.  It  is  he  who  has  the  engravings  (caricatures  of 
them)  made,  and  he  who  composes  the  verses  underneath. 
What  weakness  !  And  what  ridicule  it  will  bring  upon  him  I 
Really  my  heart  bleeds  at  it,  for  I  love  him  ;  yes,  I  love  him  ; 
he  has  so  many  good  qualities  that  it  is  a  pity  to  see  in  him 

such   miserable  foibles He  never  hears  a  good  action 

spoken  of  -without  emotion." 

Indeed,  madame  praises  warmly  the  amiable  qualities  of 
Voltaire,  particularly  his  singular  patience    in    sickness,   his 


VISITORS  AT  CIRET.  391 

gratitude  for  attentions  paid  him  when  he  was  sick,  his  tender 
sympathy  with  her  when  she  told  him  the  terrible  details  of 
her  miserable  marriage,  his  frequent  generosities,  his  thought- 
ful and  laborious  care  for  the  guests  of  the  house.  To  enter- 
tain the  abbd  the  theatre  was  reopened,  and  such  was  Vol- 
taire's zeal  that  in  one  day  and  night  he  made  his  company 
of  volunteers  rehearse  and  perform  thirty-three  acts  of  tragedy, 
opera,  and  comedy.  The  housekeeping  was  on  a  very  liberal 
scale  ;  thirty-six  fires  blazed  in  the  chateau,  requiring  six  cords 
of  wood  every  day.  Madame  de  Grafigny  relates  a  kitchen 
anecdote : — 

"  Eight  days  ago,  a  female  servant  broke  an  earthen  pot  over  the 
head  of  a  lackey  of  Voltaire,  which  kept  him  in  bed  till  yesterday. 
They  dismissed  the  girl,  and  kept  back  a  crown  from  her  wages,  which 
they  gave  to  the  lackey.  At  breakfast,  yesterday,  your  idol's  valet 
mentioned  that  the  lackey  had  given  back  the  crown  to  the  servant. 
'  Bring  him  here,'  said  Voltaire.  '  Why  did  you  give  back  the 
crown?'  '  Eh-eh-eh,  monsieur'  (for  he  is  a  booby),  'it  was  be- 
cause I  am  almost  well,  and  the  girl  is  sorry  for  having  hurt  me.' 
*  Cer'an  (that  is  the  valet's  name),  give  a  crown  to  this  queer  fellow 
for  the  one  he  gave  back ;  and  another  one  to  teach  him  what  good 
actions  deserve.  Go,  go,  my  lad  ;  you  are  very  fortunate  in  knowing 
how  to  behave.     Always  behave  well.'  " 

After  the  departure  of  the  abb^,  the  gayeties  came  to  an 
end,  and  the  two  personages  of  the  chateau  settled  to  their 
work  once  more,  laboring  with  ceaseless  impetuosity;  Voltaire 
growing  ever  more  restive  under  the  envenomed  attacks  of  his 
enemies  in  Paris. 

"Madame  spends  almost  every  night  in  work,  even  until  five  and 
seven  in  the  morning.  She  makes  the  stout  lady's  son,  who  is  a  good 
Israelite,  stay  in  her  room  copying  her  works,  of  which  he  does  not 
understand  a  word.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  she  must  sleep  until 
three  in  the  afternoon.  Not  at  all  ;  she  gets  up  at  nine  or  ten  in  the 
morning;  and  even  rises  at  six  when  she  goes  to  bed  at  four,  which 
she  calls  going  to  bed  at  cock-crow.  In  short,  she  sleeps  but  two 
hours  a  day,  and,  in  the  course  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  only  leaves 
^er  desk  for  breakfast,  which  lasts  an  hour,  and  for  supper,  and  an 
hour  after.  Sometimes  she  cats  a  morsel  at  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, but  at  her  desk,  and  very  rarely.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
Voltaire  takes  a  fancy  to  leave  his  work  for  half  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
to  pay  a  visit  to  me  and   the   stout  lady,  he  does  not  sit  down,  and 


892  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

says,  '  It  is  frightful,  the  time  we  lose  in  talking ;  we  ought  not  to 
lose  a  minute  ;  the  greatest  waste  we  can  make  is  that  of  time.'  This 
is  his  daily  remark.  We  come  to  supper  while  he  is  still  at  his  desk ; 
we  have  half  done  supper  when  he  leaves  it ;  and  we  have  to  use  force 
to  keep  him  from  going  back  as  soon  as  he  leaves  the  table.  He 
beats  his  sides  [z7  se  bat  les  Jlancs]  to  tell  us  some  stoiies  during  the 
repast ;  and  we  perceive  that  it  is  from  pure  politeness,  for  his  spirit  is 

far  away Voltaire  is  the  unhappiest  man  in  the  world.     He 

knows  his  value,  and  approbation  is  almost  indifferent  to  him ;  but  for 
that  very  reason  one  word  of  his  adversaries  reduces  him  to  what  we 
call  despair.  It  is  the  only  thing  that  occupies  him,  and  it  drowns 
him  in  bitterness.  I  cannot  give  you  an  idea  of  this  folly,  except  in 
telling  you  that  it  is  more  powerful  and  more  wretched  than  his  mind 

is  great  and  broad He  drugs  himself  without  ceasing.     He  has 

got  it  into  his  head  that  he  must  not  eat.  Judge  of  the  happiness  of 
these  people  whom  we  supposed  to  have  attained  supreme  felicity  !  I 
should  like  to  be  able  to  tell  you  all  that  I  think  of  it,  but  between 
the  tree  and  the  bark  one  must  not  put  a  finger." 

Unhappily,  Madame  cle  Grafigny,  prudent  as  she  meant  to 
be,  did  get  her  finger  between  the  tree  and  the  bark.  In  the 
innocence  of  her  heart,  overflowing  with  admiration  for  the 
genius  of  Voltaire,  she  was  accustomed  to  copy  portions  of  his 
"  Louis  XIV."  and  give  outlines  of  cantos  of  "  La  Pucelle,"  in 
her  letters  to  her  friend,  evidently  thinking  only  to  gratify  a 
warm  lover  of  the  author.  Madame  du  Chatelet,  following  the 
example  of  her  king,  opened  the  letters  that  came  to  and  left 
the  chateau.  Madame  de  Grafigny,  discovering  this,  became 
cautious  as  to  what  she  said,  and  used  feigned  names  for  the 
persons  mentioned  in  her  letters.  But,  one  day,  the  lady  of 
the  chateau  read  in  a  letter  from  Lundville  to  her  guest  the 
fatal  words  given  above,  "  The  canto  of  Jeanne  is  charming.''^ 
She  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Madame  de  Grafigny  had 
copied  a  canto  and  sent  it  to  her  friend.  Terrified  and  indig- 
nant, slie  flew  to  Voltaire,  who  was  sick,  sore,  and  exasperated 
from  his  warfare  with  enemies  in  Paris.  Awful  scenes  fol- 
lowed. The  tempest  broke  upon  the  poor  lady  after  one  of 
those  suppers  which  had  usually  been  so  merry  and  delicious. 

"  The  29th  of  December,  on  the  arrival  of  the  post,  they  told  me 
there  were  no  letters  for  me.  Supper  passed  as  usual,  without  much 
conversation,  and  without  my  observing  anything  which  could  give 
me  warning  of  the  storm  they  were  preparing  for  me.     Supper  over, 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  393 

I  withdrew  quietly  to  my  room  to  seal  a  letter  which  I  had  written 
to  you.  Half  an  hour  after,  I  saw  coming  in  you  will  easily  guess 
whom.  I  was  extremely  surprised,  for  he  never  came  into  my  apart- 
ment ;  but  much  more  astonished  was  I  when  he  said  to  me  :  '  T 
am  lost !  My  life  is  in  your  hands  ! '  '  Oh,  mon  Dieu  !  How  is 
that  ?  '  said  I.  '  How  is  that  ?  '  he  cried.  '  It  is  that  a  hundred  copies 
are  in  circulation  of  the  canto  of  Jeanne.  This  instant  I  fly !  I  seek 
refuge  in  Holland,  at  the  end  of  the  world,  —  I  don't  know  where. 
M.  du  Chatelet  starts  for  Luneville.  You  must  write  at  once  to  Pan- 
pan  [M.  Deveaux,  her  friend]  to  secure  his  assistance  in  getting  back  all 
those  copies.  Is  he  honest  man  enough  to  do  it  ? '  I  assured  him,  with 
the  utmost  sincerity,  that  you  would  render  all  the  services  in  your 
power.  '  Very  well,  then,'  said  he,  '  write  quick,  and  earnestly.'  '  I 
will  do  so  I '  I  exclaimed.  '  I  am  delighted  to  seize  this  opportunity  to 
show  you  all  my  zeal.'  Nevertheless,  I  told  him  how  much  it  afflicted 
me  that  such  a  thing  should  happen  while  I  was  here. 

"  At  this  he  rose,  furious,  and  said  to  me :  '  No  prevarication,  ma- 
dame  !  It  is  you  who  sent  the  copy.'  At  these  words  I  fell  from  the 
clouds.  I  assured  him  that  I  had  never  read  nor  written  a  single  verse 
of  it.  He  insisted,  nevertheless,  that  it  was  you  who  distributed  the 
copies,  and  that  you  had  said  I  had  sent  the  canto  to  you.  Upon 
hearing  this,  I  saw,  like  a  flash,  that  some  one  of  the  hundred  thou- 
sand persons  to  whom  he  has  shown  this  poem  had  kept  a  canto,  and 
that  it  was  circulating,  while  I  was  here  without  my  being  able  to  clear 
myself  of  suspicion.  Alas  !  a  circumstance  so  distressing  drove  me  to 
despair.  I  repeated,  with  the  accent  of  truth,  but  always  with  a 
deafening  vivacity,  that  it  was  not  I.  He  declared,  in  his  turn,  that 
you  had  read  the  canto  to  Desmarets,  at  a  lady's  house ;  that  you  were 
giving  copies  of  it  to  everybody  ;  and  that  Madame  du  Chatelet  had  the 
proof  of  it  in  her  pocket. 

•  "  What  could  I  say  ?  Oh,  my  friend,  I  was  in  utter  consternation. 
You  will  perceive  that  I  understood  nothing  of  all  this,  and  that  it  was 
impossible  I  should ;  but  not  the  less  frightened  was  I  on  that  account. 
At  last,  he  said  to  me,  '  Come,  come,  write  and  tell  him  to  send  you 
back  the  original  and  the  copies.'  I  began  to  write ;  and  as  I  could 
not  ask  you  to  return  what  I  had  not  sent  you,  I  begged  you  to 
inform  yourself  of  what  had  happened,  and  to  communicate  to  me 
whatever  you  might  learn.  He  read  my  letter,  and,  throwing  it  back 
to  me,  he  exclaimed,  '  Oh,  fie,  madame  !  You  should  be  sincere  when 
the  very  life  of  a  poor  unfortunate  like  me  is  in  danger.' 

"  The  more  I  talked,  the  less  I  convinced  him.  I  was  silent.  This 
frightful  scene  lasted  at  least  an  hour  ;  but  it  was  nothing  to  what 
was  coming ;  it  was  reserved  for  the  lady  to  put  the  climax  to  it.    She 


394  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIEE. 

came  into  my  room  like  a  fury,  screaming  with  passion  and  repeating 
almost  the  same  things,  while  I  still  kept  silence.  Then  she  drew  a 
letter  from  her  pocket,  and,  almost  thrusting  it  into  my  face,  cried 
out,  '  See,  see  the  proof  of  your  infamy!  You  are  the  most  unworthy 
of  creatures !  You  are  a  monster,  whom  I  took  into  my  house,  not 
from  friendship,  for  I  had  none  for  you,  but  because  you  knew  not 
where  else  to  go  ;  and  you  have  had  the  infamy  to  betray  me,  to  as- 
sassinate me,  to  steal  from  my  desk  a  work  for  the  purpose  of  copy- 
ing it ! ' 

"  Ah,  my  poor  friend,  where  were  you  ?  The  thunder-bolt  which 
falls  at  the  feet  of  the  solitary  traveler  overwhelms  him  less  than 
these  words  overwhelmed  me.  This  is  all  I  can  recollect  of  the  tor- 
rent of  insults  which  she  uttered ;  for  I  was  so  distracted  that  I  soon 
ceased  to  hear  and  understand  her.  But  she  said  much  more,  and  un- 
less Voltaire  had  restrained  her  she  would  have  boxed  my  ears.  To 
all  that  she  said  I  only  replied,  '  Oh,  be  silent,  madame ;  I  am  too  un- 
happy for  you  to  treat  me  so  unworthily  ! ' 

"  At  these  words  Voltaire«seized  her  round  the  waist,  and  snatched 
her  away  from  me  ;  for  she  said  all  this  right  in  my  teeth,  and  with 
such  violent  gestures  that  at  every  moment  I  expected  she  would 
strike  me.  When  she  had  been  removed,' she  strode  up  and  down  the 
room,  uttering  loud  exclamations  upon  my  infamy.  Observe,  all  this 
was  uttered  in  so  loud  a  voice  that  Dubois  [maid  of  Madame  Gra- 
figny],  who  was  two  rooms  off,  heard  every  word.  For  my  part,  I 
was  long  without  the  power  to  pronounce  a  syllable  ;  I  was  neither 
dead  nor  alive. 

"  At  last,  I  asked  to  see  the  letter.  She  told  me  I  should  not  have 
it.  '  At  least,'  said  I,  '  show  me  what  there  is  in  it  so  decisive  against 
me.'  She  did  so,  and  I  saw  this  unfortunate  phrase :  '  T7ie  canto  of 
Jeanne  is  charming.'  Instantly  that  gave  me  the  secret  of  this  scene, 
which  I  had  not  before  thought  of.  I  at  once  gave  them  the  ex- 
planation, and  told  them  what  I  had  written  to  you  of  the  impres- 
sion which  the  canto  had  made  upon  me  when  I  had  heard  it  read. 
To  his  credit  I  say  it,  Voltaire  believed  me  at  once,  and  immediately 
asked  my  forgiveness. 

"  The  affair  was  tlien  explained  to  me  as  it  had  appeared  to  them. 
He  told  me  that  you  had  read  my  letter  to  Desmarets  in  the  hearing 
of  a  man  who  had  written  an  account  of  it  to  M.  du  Chatelet ;  and 
that,  upon  reading  that  letter,  they  had  opened  yours  to  me,  which 
had  confirmed  them  in  their  error.  This  scene  lasted  until  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning. 

"  Megara  [madame]  was  slow  to  give  in.  Poor  Voltaire  talked  to 
her  a  long  time  in  English  without  making  any  impression  upon  her ; 


t 


II 


VISITORS  AT  CIREY.  395 

then  he  teased  her  to  make  her  say  that  she  believed  my  story,  and 
that  she  was  sorry  for  what  she  had  said  to  me.  They  made  me  write 
and  ask  you  to  send  me  back  my  letter,  in  order  that  I  might  justify 
myself  entirely.  I  wrote  with  extreme  pain  ;  I  gave  them  my  letter, 
and  they  went  away ;  but  I  did  not  cease  to  tremble  until  they  had 
been  gone  for  a  long  time. 

*'  In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  the  stout  lady  (Madame  de  Champ- 
boniii)  entered,  but  immediately  went  out,  and  I  did  not  see  her  attain, 
until  they  had  been  gone  an  hour.  She  found  me  vomiting,  and  in 
a  frightful  state  ;  for  reflection  only  redoubled  my  grief.  She  went 
down-stairs  again,  and,  a  moment  after,  brought  me  back  the  letter  I 
had  written,  saying  tliat  they  believed  me  upon  my  word  alone,  and 
that  it  was  useless  to  write.  Dieu!  in  what  a  condition  I  was  !  Un- 
til noon  I  was  in  perfect  despair,  and  you  will  not  be  surprised  at  it  if 
you  realize  the  situation  in  which  I  was,  —  without  a  home,  without 
money,  and  insulted  in  a  house  which  I  could  not  leave.  Madame  de 
was  at  Commercy,  and  I  had  not  a  single  sou  to  pay  my  ex- 
penses to  the  next  village,  where  I  should  have  slept  better  upon 
straw  than  in  a  chamber  which  I  could  not  look  upon  again  without 
horror.  What  was  to  become  of  me,  O  my  Panpan?  The  good 
stout  lady  was  the  only  one  who  had  shown  me  any  humanity  ;  but, 
as  she  believed  still  that  I  had  copied  that  cursed  canto,  and  as  she  is 
strongly  attached  to  the  family,  she  gave  me  but  cold  consolation. 

"At  last,  about  noon,  the  good  Voltaire  came  in.  He  was  moved 
even  to  tears  at  my  condition.  He  made  me  the  most  emphatic  ex- 
cuses. Many  times  he  asked  my  forgiveness,  and  I  had  an  opportu- 
nity to  see  all  the  tenderness  of  his  heart.  He  made  me  give  him  my 
word  of  honor  that  I  would  not  ask  the  return  of  the  fatal  letter,  and 
I  gave  it  to  him. 

"  At  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  M.  du  Chatelet  came  in  with  a  con- 
trite air,  and  said  to  me,  gently,  that  he  advised  me  to  send  for  my 
letter  ;  not  that  they  did  not  believe  my  word,  but  just  to  confound 
them.  I  objected  that  I  had  given  my  word  not  to  do  it,  and  that  I 
was  afraid,  since  I  did  not  doubt  that  my  letters  were  opened,  that 
they  would  take  it  ill  if  I  broke  my  promise.  Nevertheless  he  in- 
sisted so  strongly,  and  so  well  persuaded  me  that  my  letter  should  not 
be  opened,  that  at  last  I  promised  him  I  would  write.  It  required  a 
whole  hour  of  reflection  for  me  to  see  through  the  trick ;  for  I  had  no 
more  the  faculty  of  thinking.  I  passed  three  days  and  three  nights 
in  tears. 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot  to  say  that  the  same  evening,  about  eight  o'clock, 
Megara  came  with  all  her  train,  and,  after  a  formal  courtesy,  said,  in 
a  very  dry  tone,   '  Madame,  I  am  sorry  for  what  passed  last  night.' 


396  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

And  then  she  spoke  of  other  things  with  the  fat  lady  and  her  hus- 
band, as  tranquilly  as  people  speak  when  they  rise  in  the  morning." 

For  three  weeks  Madame  de  Grafigny  was  prostrate,  or,  as 
she  expressed  it,  "  in  hell,"  always  sick,  and  not  leaving  her 
room  till  nine  in  the  evening.  At  length  the  letter  arrived  in 
which  she  had  described  the  canto,  which  made  her  innocence 
manifest.  Even  then  Madame  du  Chatelet  was  cold  and  for- 
mal, not  being  able  to  forgive  herself  for  her  violence.  Vol- 
taire was  all  contrition  and  assiduity. 

"  More  than  once  he  shed  tears  on  seeing  me  so  ill,  never 
entering  my  chamber  without  making  me  the  most  humble 
and  pathetic  excuses,  and  redoubling  his  care  that  I  should 
want  nothing.  Often  he  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  madame 
was  a  terrible  woman,  who  had  no  flexibility  in  her  heart, 
although  she  had  a  good  heart." 

Gradually,  life  at  the  chateau  resumed  its  usual  train ;  even 
Megara  relented,  and  there  was  an  approach  to  the  former 
gayety  and  ease.  The  guest  appears  to  have  remained  at 
Cirey  about  three  months,  not  six,  as  the  title-page  of  her 
letters  imports.  She  contrived  in  the  spring  of  1739  to  get 
away  to  Paris,  where  she  lived  the  rest  of  her  life  upon  a 
small  pension  from  the  Austrian  court,  increased  at  a  later 
day  by  the  profits  of  her  works.  Voltaire  remained  to  the 
end  of  her  life  her  affectionate  friend  and  correspondent,  con- 
gratulating her  upon  her  literary  successes,  and  giving  her  the 
aid  which  an  established  author  can  give  to  one  beginning  a 
career. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE  ABB6  DESFONTAINES. 

Nothing  that  Madame  de  Grafigny  observed  at  Cirey  sur- 
prised her  so  much  as  Voltaire's  sensitiveness  to  the  attacks  of 
a  hostile  press.  The  mere  mention  of  the  editor  Desfontaines 
or  of  the  poet  J.  B.  Rousseau  was  enough  sometimes  to  put 
him  in  a  passion.  One  evening  in  February,  1739,  as  she  re- 
cords, they  were  going  to  play  a  comedy  at  the  chateau  ;  the 
guests  were  assembled  and  the  actors  were  ready,  when  the 
mail  arrived,  bringing  him  some  disagreeable  letters.  "  He 
uttered  frightful  cries,  and  fell  into  a  kind  of  convulsions. 
Madame  du  Chatelet  at  length  came  into  my  room,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  as  big  as  her  fist,  and  begged  me  not  to  perform. 
The  curtain  did  not  rise.  Yesterday  he  had  some  good  inter- 
vals, and  we  played.  Man  Dieu!  what  a  donkey  [hete]  he 
is,  —  he  who  has  so  mucli  intellect !  " 

Madame  de  Grafigny,  like  many  other  guests,  did  not  pene- 
trate the  secret  of  the  house  she  inhabited.  She  was  very  far 
from  knowing  what  was  the  matter  with  the  inmates  of  the 
chateau,  and  naturally  surmised  it  to  be  some  new  offense 
committed  against  a  too  susceptible  author  of  weak  digestion 
by  a  robust,  unscrupulous  critic.  This  may  well  have  seemed 
to  her  a  trifling  cause  of  effects  so  dire  ;  for  of  all  the  ills  we 
see  others  suffer,  there  are  few  which  we  bear  with  more  com- 
posure than  their  abuse  by  the  press.  We  are  amazed  that 
they  should  take  it  seriously.  Nevertheless,  when  it  is  our 
turn  to  roast,  we  do  not  find  the  process  agreeable  ;  and  no 
people  feel  so  acutely  the  anguish  inflicted  by  the  pen  as 
those  whose  profession  it  is  to  use  that  instrument  of  torture. 

Voltaire  had  particular  reasons  for  resenting  the  Abb^ 
Desfontaines's  faint  praise  and  covert  satire.  It  was  not  his 
clerical  garb  and  title  ;  for  he  had  resigned  a  small  country 
benefice  in  order  to  devote  himself  to  literature,  and  was  now 


398  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

only  an  abb^  m  title.  Piron,  probably,  had  tbe  true  reason 
in  mind  when  he  made  his  well-known  retort.  Desfontaines, 
seeing  Piron  enter  the  Caf^  Procope,  veiy  handsomely  dressed, 
said  to  him,  "  M.  Piron,  does  such  a  coat  as  this  become  a 
poet?"  To  which  Piron  replied,  "Does  such  a  man  as  this 
become  such  a  coat  ?  " 

In  1724,  when  Desfontaines  was  a  writer  for  such  literary 
journals  as  there  were  then  in  Paris,  he  was  introduced  by 
Thieriot  to  Voltaire,  who  was  polite  to  him,  and  alluded  to 
him  in  a  friendly  tone  in  his  letters.  A  few  weeks  after  this 
introduction,  the  abbe  was  arrested  on  an  unnamable  charge ;  a 
bo}^  chimney-sweep  the  alleged  victim.  The  crime,  in  tbe 
severe  code  of  that  age,  was  punishable  by  burning  alive  ;  and 
as  several  cases  had  lately  been  reported,  it  was  thought  that 
an  example  was  needed.  The  officers  of  the  law  were  preparing 
the  indictment,  when  the  abbd  wrote  to  Voltaire  informing 
him  of  his  dangei*.  It  was  at  the  time  of  the  poet's  brief 
favor  with  Madame  de  Prie,  mistress  of  the  Duke  de  Bourbon, 
prime  minister.  He  flew  to  Fontainebleau,  and,  using  all  that 
zeal  and  tact  which  he  was  wont  to  use  when  a  friend  needed 
his  aid,  he  procured  an  order  for  the  discharge  of  the  prisoner 
on  the  simple  condition  of  his  leaving  Paris.  The  abbe  left 
Paris,  and  Voltaire  ;ig;vin  interposed  in  his  behalf,  endeavoring 
to  get  permission  for  his  return.  He  spoke  to  M.  de  Fleury 
on  the  subject,  found  him  prejudiced  against  the  accused,  but 
succeeded,  after  farther  efforts,  in  obtaining  the  remission  of 
his  exile,  and  the  abbd  resumed  his  vocation  in  Paris. 

The  letter  in  which  he  poured  forth  his  gratitude  to  Vol- 
taire has  been  pr(^served.  "  I  shall  never  forget,  monsieur," 
it  began,  "the  infinite  obligations  I  am  under  to  you.  Your 
good  heart  is  far  above  even  your  genius  ;  and  you  are  tlie 
truest  friend  that  ever  existed.  The  zeal  with  which  you  have 
served  me  does  me,  in  some  sort,  more  honor  than  the  malice 
and  depravity  of  my  enemies  have  given   me  of  affront."  ^ 

Whether  Desfontaines  was  guilty  or  innocent  of  the  of- 
fense charged  cannot  be  known,  because  his  case  was  never 
tried.  Nor  does  his  avoiding  a  trial  imply  guilt.  Men  who 
could  bring  such  an  accusation  against  a  writer  in  revenge  for 
satirical  or  abusive  paragraphs  would  not  stick  at  making  or 

1  I  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  255. 


THE  ABBE   DESFONTAINES.  399 

buying  testimony,  and  the  most  innocent  person  in  that  age 
and  country  might  shrink  from  a  trial  involving  such  painful 
possibilities.  He  told  Voltaire,  in  the  letter  just  quoted,  that 
he  had  a  plan  of  a  defense  in  his  mind  which  he  thought  would 
be  "  beautiful  and  curious,"  and  which  he  was  going  to  work 
out  in  the  country  ;  for  it  would  not  become  him  to  be  silent 
"  under  so  execrable  an  affront."  This  defense,  however,  never 
appeared.  One  thing  only  is  certain  :  Voltaire  rendered  Des- 
fontaines  a  very  great  service. 

Time  passed.  Voltaire  spent  his  three  years  in  England, 
returned,  and  continued  his  brilliant  career.  Desfontaines, 
after  working  upon  and  conducting  various  journals,  estab- 
lished, in  1735,  a  literary  weekly,  which  he  called  "  Observa- 
tions sur  tons  les  Ouvrages  Nouveaux,"  in  which  he  displayed 
no  more  than  the  usual  perversity  of  ancient  critics.  At 
present  a  book  sent  to  the  critical  periodicals  for  review  is 
usually  assigned  to  reviewers  specially  qualified  ;  but  in  that 
period  the  conductor  was  man-of-all-work,  and  felt  himself 
obliged  to  assume  an  editorial  superiority  on  every  subject 
and  in  every  kind  of  literature.  Thus,  Desfontaines,  when 
Newton  became  a  topic  of  general  interest  in  France,  know- 
ing nothing  of  Newton  but  what  he  had  read  in  Voltaire's 
English  Letters,  treated  the  new  philosophy  with  contemptu- 
ous freedom.  "  Newtonisra,"  said  he,  "  is  bad  science,  repro- 
bated by  all  the  good  philosophers  of  Europe Newton 

was  no  philosopher ;  only  a  geometer,  an  observer,  a  calcu- 
lator. Such  terms  as  vacuum,  absolute  gravitation,  attraction 
of  gravitation,  are  the  contemptible  jargon  of  peripateticism, 
—  a  jargon  long  ago  despised  and  proscribed  in  all  the  schools 
of  Europe."  ^ 

Although  this  was  the  fashionable  tone  in  France,  in  1735, 
upon  the  Newtonian  philosophy,  the  sentences  quoted  were 
doubtless  aimed  at  the  man  who  had  plucked  the  writer  of 
them  as  a  brand  from  the  burning  in  1724. 

Desfontaines,  in  fact,  soon  forgot  his  obligations  to  his  de- 
liverer. He  took  offense,  as  it  seems,  from  a  trifling  cause. 
Having  published  a  French  translation  of  Voltaire's  English 
Essay  upon  Epic  Poetry,  the  author  of  that  work  found  it  so 
swarming  with  errors  that  he  translated  it  anew  himself,  and 
1  2  L'Esprit  de  I'Abbe  Desfontaiues,  62. 


400  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

published  it,  as  it  were,  in  opposition  to  Desfontaines's  transla- 
tion. One  mistake  of  the  abbe's  made  a  good  deal  of  sport 
at  the  time.  The  English  word  cakes  bafHed  him,  and  he  con- 
cluded it  to  be  an  English  form  of  Cacus,  the  Latin  name  of 
Vulcan's  robber  son.  Voltaire,  it  seems,  wrote,  "  the  cakes 
eaten  by  the  Trojans,"  which  the  learned  abb^  translated,  la 
faim  devorante  de  Cacus.  Desfontaines,  from  this  time,  we 
are  told,  held  his  obligations  to  Voltaire  annulled,  and  treated 
him  in  his  journals  with  no  particular  consideration.  He  com- 
mended some  of  his  tragedies,  damned  his  "  Charles  XII."  with 
the  faintest  praise  and  sly  insinuation,  criticised  "La  Henri- 
ade  "  with  freedom,  and,  in  general,  wrote  of  his  works  with- 
out favor  but  with  no  very  noticeable  severity.  Voltaire  did 
not  enjoy  the  perusal  of  the  "  Observations."  He  thought 
them  arrogant,  ignorant,  and  tasteless.  He  laughed  when  Des- 
fontaines, who  still  plumed  himself  upon  his  English,  styled 
Bishop  Berkeley's  "  Alciphron  "  a  defense  of  atheism.  "  I  re- 
pent," he  wrote  to  Cideville  in  1735,  "  having  saved  Desfon- 
taines. After  all,  it  is  better  to  burn  a  priest  than  to  bore  the 
public.  If  I  had  left  him  to  cook,  I  should  have  spared  the 
public  many  imbecilities." 

Personal  ill-will  grew  between  them.  Voltaire,  with  some 
reason,  suspected  Desfontaines  of  writing  bookseller  .lore's 
attack,  —  a  piece  done  evidently  by  a  practiced  hand.  He 
thought,  too,  that  the  abbe  was  in  league  with  detested  Rous- 
seau, traitor  to  the  freedom  of  utterance,  with  whom  Vol- 
taire was  at  open  war.  Desfontaines  knew  no  moderation 
when  Rousseau  was  to  be  extolled,  and  he  praised  him  in 
terms  that  seemed  designed  to  meet  Voltaire's  censure.  Vol- 
taire, for  example,  liked  to  remind  the  public  that  Rousseau 
was  a  mere  poet,  and  a  poet  who  excelled  only  in  one  or  two 
kinds.  Desfontaines  began  an  eulogium  by  remarking  that 
Rousseau  was  "  a  great  master  in  all  the  kinds  and  in  all 
the  styles ; "  as  admirable  in  his  theory  of  the  poetic  art  as 
in  the  poems  by  which  he  illustrated  it.  Voltaire  reflected 
upon  Rousseau's  family,  his  father  having  been  an  excellent 
shoemaker  and  a  good  citizen.  Desfontaines  wrote,  "Every 
man  of  letters  who  becomes  distinguished,  every  celebrated  au- 
thor, is  a  nobleman."  Rousseau,  he  added,  was  of  illustrious  ori- 
gin,—  a  descendant  of  Homer,  Virgil,  Pindar,  and  Horace: 
nay,  a  son  of  Apollo  and  Calliope. 


THE  abb6  desfontaines.  401 

This  was  a  good  and  fair  retort.  His  notice  of  Voltaire's 
Newton  was  extremely  exasperating,  and  was  obviously  meant 
to  be  so. 

'*  To  have  [said  he]  a  sovereign  contempt  for  the  scientific  system 
that  has  dazzled  M.  de  Voltaire,  it  is  only  necessary  to  recall  one's 
mind  to  the  great  principles  of  clear  ideas  \^aux  grands  principes  des 
idees  claires.']  Happily,  there  are  in  liis  book  many  other  things 
not  connected  with  that  bad  system,  to  which  we  cannot  refuse  our 
esteem,  such  as  the  observations  of  Newton  and  other  scientific  men 
and  astronomers  upon  light  and  color.  These,  however,  were  long  ago 
known  and  adopted  in  France,  and  they  are  taught  in  the  scliools. 
M.  de  Voltaire  has,  nevertheless,  the  glory  of  having  compiled  them 
with  care,  and  of  having  published  them  in  French.  If  he  has  fallen 
into  some  mistakes,  persons  who  are  versed  in  those  elevated  subjects 
easily  perceive  his  errors." 

Every  sentence  of  this  was  barbed  and  poisoned  for  a  sus- 
ceptible author  living  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  off,  and  la- 
boring under  the  conviction  that  this  perverse  and  ignorant 
editor  was  "  the  oracle  of  the  provinces,"  and  whose  journal 
actually  had  a   large  circulation.       Worse   offenses   increased 
the  ill-feeling  between  them.     Desfontaines  published  a  pri- 
vate letter  addressed  to  him  by  Voltaire,  asking  him  to  state, 
"  in  two  lines,"  that  the  edition  of  his  "  Julius  Caesar,"  just 
out,    was    not    published    with    the    author's    consent,     and 
abounded  in  errors  and  alterations      Desfontaines,   who  had 
already  written  his  review  of  the  play,  simply  added  to  it  this 
letter,  much  to  the  writer's  disgust.     There  was  a  partial  rec- 
onciliation between  them,  Voltaire  being  morbidly  and  exces- 
sively desirous  to  propitiate  a  man  who,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
was  lessening  his  hold  upon   the  public,  and  giving  courage 
to  the  powers  who  issued  lettres  de  cachet.     The  favor  of  the 
public  was  his  only  safety.     The  most  sensualized  noble,  the 
narrowest    ecclesiastic,  the  meanest  informer,  had  some  feel- 
ing of  the  dangerous  ridicule  of  molesting  a  man   who  was 
"shedding  glory  upon  the  king's  reign  ;  "  for,  under  every  form 
of  government,   in   every  degree  and   kind  of  civilization,  the 
power  that  finally  rules  and  sways,  the  king  of  kings  and  lord 
of  lords,  is  Public  Opinion.     Voltaire  was  fighting  for  freedom 
of  thought  and  utterance  in  Europe.     He  was  fighting  Rous- 
seau's  battle  and  Desfontaines's  battle.      His  detestation  of 

VOL.  I.  26 


402  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIEE. 

those  men  was  therefore  a  blending  of  all  the  ingredients  of 
animosity,  public  and  private,  noble  and  personal. 

The  truce  was  broken  by  a  foul  blow  on  the  part  of  the 
editor.  The  young  and  generous  Count  Algarotti,  before 
starting  upon  his  expedition  to  the  polar  seas,  had  spent  a  few 
days  at  Cirey,  where  Voltaire  had  addressed  to  him,  on  his 
departure,  some  pretty  verses,  which  were,  for  many  reasons, 
unfit  for  publication. 

"  Go,"  said  the  poet,  "  and  return  bringing  to  the  French 
people  news  of  the  pole  observed  and  measured.  I,  mean- 
while, will  await  your  coming  under  my  meridian,  in  the  fields 
of  Cirey,  observing  henceforth  only  the  star  of  Emlly. 
Warmed  by  the  fire  of  her  powerful  genius,  ....  I  call  to 
witness  the  heavens  measured  by  your  hands  that  I  would 
not  abandon  her  divine  charms  for  the  equator  and  the  arctic 
pole." 

This  poem  of  a  dozen  lines  having,  by  some  chance,  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  Desfontaines,  he  wrote  to  the  author,  asking 
permission  to  insert  it  in  his  journal !  We  can  imagine  the 
consternation  of  the  inmates  of  the  chateau  at  the  thought  of 
such  an  indecorous  promulgation  of  a  secret  known  to  Europe. 
All  three  of  the  persons  interested  —  Voltaire,  the  Marquis  du 
Chatelet,  and  madame  —  united  in  an  earnest  protest  against 
its  publication.     Nevertheless,  he  published  it. 

The  reader  cannot  desire  to  follow  this  quarrel  through  all 
its  stages.  Voltaire's  minor  poems  of  this  period  contain 
bitter  satire  of  "  the  hireling  scribe  "  who  sold  his  wrath  and 
adulation  to  the  first  comer ;  and  the  "  Observations  "  teem 
with  evidences  of  the  editor's  anger  against  his  adversary. 
It  is  one  of  the  calamitous  limitations  of  literature  that  a 
battle,  nay,  a  skirmish  of  outposts,  that  only  lasts  twenty 
minutes,  demands,  for  its  complete  elucidation,  more  space 
than  could  usually  be  afforded  to  the  most  brilliant,  the  most 
important,  the  most  enduring,  triumph  of  peaceful  exertion. 
About  Waterloo  there  is  a  library  ;  but  no  historian,  I  think, 
bestows  two  lines  upon  the  publication,  in  1624,  of  Lord 
Herbert's  "  De  Veritate,"  which  began  deism  in  Europe.  I 
have  before  me  several  hundred  printed  pages  upon  this  qmir- 
rel  between  Voltaire  and  Desfontaines.  Let  us  come  at  once 
to  the  crisis  of  the  strife. 


THE   ABBfi  DESFONTAINES.  403 

In  an  evil  hour  for  his  own  peace  and  dignity,  Voltaire  hit 
upon  the  expedient  of  applying  to  his  reviewer  the  reviewer's 
most  effective  trick,  that  of  gleaning  the  errors  from  a  thou- 
sand pages,  and  grouping  them  in  one  page.  No  work  can 
stand  this  treatment,  if  it  is  skillfully  managed.  Go  carefully 
over  a  book  containing  ten  thousand  things  ;  find  some  typo- 
graphical errors,  some  lapses  in  style,  some  omissions,  inten- 
tional and  unintentional,  several  unimportant  and  two  or 
three  important  mistakes,  a  few  sentences  which,  severed  from 
their  connection,  can  easily  be  made  to  seem  absurd  ;  group 
all  that  with  the  tact  of  "  an  old  hand,"  and  vou  can  make  a 
review  of  a  very  good  book  that  will  cause  provincial  readers 
to  pity  the  author,  and  wonder  it  should  be  considered  safe  to 
let  him  go  loose.  Voltaire  took  two  hundred  numbers  of  Des- 
fontaines's  weeklj^,  subjected  them  to  this  familiar  process,  and 
published  the  result  in  a  pamphlet,  entitled  "  The  Preserva- 
tive "  (Le  Pr^servatif),  a  copy  of  which,  as  we  have  seen,  he 
handed  to  Madame  de  Grafigny  to  read.  This  pamphlet  of 
forty  small  pages  bore  the  name  in  the  title-page  of  the  Cheva- 
lier de  Mouhi,  one  of  several  poor  fellows  who  hung  about  the 
office  of  the  Abbe  Moussinot  to  get  an  occasional  louis  d'or 
from  Voltaire's  charity. 

It  was  not  a  difficult  task  to  compose  an  effective  pamphlet 
of  this  kind,  for  Desfontaines's  ignorance  of  science  was  that 
of  a  French  abb^  of  1735,  and,  in  literary  matters,  he  made 
frequent  slips,  as  all  men  must  who  write  continually  and  on 
every  topic.  Thus,  he  wrote  that  Brutus  was  more  a  Quaker 
than  a  Stoic.  "  It  is,"  remarked  Voltaire,  "  as  if  he  had  said 
Brutus  was  more  a  Capuchin  than  a  Stoic."  A  wonderful 
statement  of  the  editor  was  that  Seneca  was  a  more  verbose 
writer  than  Cicero.  He  had  made,  too,  some  ludicrous  mis- 
translations from  Latin,  Italian,  and  English ;  he  had  dis- 
played a  singular  and  inveterate  ignorance  of  Newton  when- 
ever he  mentioned  or  alluded  to  him.  Voltaire  selected  about 
fifty  of  his  mistakes  and  misconceptions,  appending  to  each  a 
sentence  or  two  of  quiet  satire ;  all  tending  to  show  ''  how 
amusing  it  was  that  such  a  man  should  take  it  into  his  head  to 
sit  in  judgment  upon  others." 

But  this  was  not  the  sting  of  "  Le  Pr^servatif."  Toward 
the  close  of  his  pamphlet,  Voltaire  made  his  Chevalier  de 
Mouhi  proceed  thus  :  — 


404  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

"  Having  read  in  these  '  Observations '  several  attacks  upon  M.  de 
Voltaire,  as  well  as  a  letter  which  the  editor  boasted  he  had  received 
from  M.  de  Voltaire,  I  took  the  liberty  to  write  myself  to  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, though  not  acquainted  with  him.     Here  is  his  reply  :  — 

" '  I  only  know  the  Abbe  Guyot  Desfontaiues  from  M.  Thieriot's 
bringing  him  to  my  house  in  1724  as  a  man  who  had  formerly  been 
a  Jesuit,  and  hence  a  student.  I  received  him  with  friendship,  as 
I  do  all  who  cultivate  literature.  I  was  astonished  at  the  end  of 
fifteen  days  to  receive  a  letter  fi'om  him,  written  at  Bicetre  [prison 
for  criminals,  near  Paris],  to  which  he  had  just  been  committed.  I 
learned  that  he  had  been  put  into  the  Chatelet  [prison  in  Paris]  three 
months  before  for  the  same  crime  of  which  he  was  then  accused,  and 
that  they  were  preparing  to  try  him.  At  that  time  I  was  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  have  some  very  powerful  friends,  of  whom  death  has  since 
deprived  me.  Sick  as  I  was,  I  hurried  to  Fontainebleau  to  throw 
myself  at  their  feet.  I  pressed,  I  solicited,  on  all  sides  ;  and,  at  last, 
obtained  his  release,  and  the  discontinuance  of  a  trial  that  involved  a 
question  of  life  or  death.  I  also  procured  for  him  permission  to  re- 
tire to  the  country  house  of  M.  le  President  de  Bernieres,  my  friend, 
and  he  went  thither  with  M.  Thieriot.  Do  you  know  what  he  did 
there  ?  He  wrote  a  libel  against  me.  He  even  showed  it  to  M. 
Thieriot,  who  made  him  throw  it  into  the  fire.  He  asked  my  pardon, 
saying  that  the  libel  was  written  a  little  before  the  time  of  his  com- 
mittal to  Bicetre.  I  had  the  weakness  to  forgive  him,  and  that  weak- 
ness has  cost  me  a  mortal  enemy,  who  has  written  me  anonymous  let- 
ters, and  who  has  sent  twenty  libels  to  Holland  against  me.  Such, 
sir,  are  some  of  the  things  I  can  say  concerning  him.' " 

This  was  a  cutting  stroke  ;  but,  as  the  reader  observes,  there 
is  no  indication  in  the  letter  of  the  nature  of  the  offense  for 
which  the  abb^  was  committed  to  prison.  As  if  to  supply  the 
deficiency,  the  author  of  "  Le  Preservatif,"  while  that  pam- 
phlet was  passing  through  the  press,  set  flying  about  Paris  an 
epigram,  in  which  the  attacks  of  Desfontaines  upon  Newton 
were  coupled  with  the  offense  of  which  he  was  accused :  "  He 
has  taken  everything  a  rehours,  and  his  errors  are  always  sins 
asainst  nature.''  Still  worse,  he  caused  a  caricature  to  be 
engraved  and  published,  representing  the  abbe  on  his  knees 
receiving  ignominious  punishment  for  his  alleged  crime.  Un- 
der the  picture  was  another  epigram  by  Voltaire,  not  de- 
scribable,  ending  with  an  assurance  that  "  God  recompenses 
merit." 


THE   ABBfe  DESFONTAINES.  405 

When  the  matadore  strikes  between  the  horns  with  his  slen- 
der and  glitterhig  blade,  he  must  kill  his  bull  on  the  instant, 
or  look  out  for  his  horns.  The  bull  will  not  refrain  from  ven- 
p-eance  because  he  is  not  skilled  in  the  use  of  the  matadore's 
brilliant  weapon;  he  employs  the  means  of  offense  that  nature 
has  given  him,  and  the  matadore  expects  nothing  else.  Des- 
fontaines  replied  promptly  to  "  Le  Preservatif  "  in  a  pamphlet 
which  he  entitled  "  The  Voltaire  Mania  [La  Voltairomanie], 
or  the  Letter  of  a  Young  Advocate,  in  the  Form  of  a  Memo- 
rial." It  was  the  attack  of  a  bull  blinded  by  rage,  and  Vol- 
taire was  justly  punished  by  it  for  stooping  either  to  concili- 
ate or  to  assail  such  an  adversary.  The  young  advocate  began 
by  assuming  that,  in  assaulting  Voltaire,  he  was  avenging  out- 
raged man. 

"  He  has  spared  no  one,  and,  like  a  mad  dog,  he  has  thrown 
himself  upon  all  the  most  distinguished  authors.  Theologians, 
philosophers,  poets,  all  the  learned,  have  been  the  objects  of 
his  contempt,  raillery,  and  banter.  He  has  turned  into  ridi- 
cule religions,  nations,  and  governments.  There  is  no  one 
who  does  not  know  this ;  and  why  should  I  not  unmask  the 
persecutor  of  the  human  race,  this  enemy  of  the  living  and 
the  dead,  and  tear  from  him  that  assumption  of  infallibility 
in  litei-ature  with  which  he  arrogantly  decorates  himself?  " 

The  "  young  adyocate  "  was  also  the  defender  of  an  outraged 
individual.  The  Abbe  Desfontaines,  he  remarks,  is  of  an  age 
and  character  that  cause  him  to  forgive  injuries  too  easily, 
and  therefore  he,  the  young  advocate,  his  friend,  has  imder- 
taken  to  punish  a  man  who  has  been  accustomed  to  be  paid 
for  his  follies  hi  another  way. 

"  Supposing,  even,  that  the  Abbe  Desfontaines  is  such  a  person  as 
he  is  depicted  in  '  Le  Preservatif;'  does  it  follow  that  Voltaire  is  an 
honest  man  and  a  orreat  writer?  Will  all  connoisseurs  be  the  less 
convinced  that  he  is  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  dramatic  art,  and  that 
he  owes  all  the  applause  he  has  ever  received  at  the  theatre  to  the 
empty  harmony  of  his  pompous  tirades,  and  to  his  satiric  or  irreligious 
audacity  ?  His  '  Heuriade,'  will  it  be  the  less  a  dazzling  chaos,  a  bad 
tissue  of  fictions,  stale  or  out  of  place,  in  which  there  is  as  much  jirose 
as  verse,  and  more  verbal  faults  than  pages  ?  Will  not  his  '  Charles 
XII.'  always  pass  for  the  work  of  an  ignorant  fool,  written  in  the 
jocular  taste  of  a  common  gossip  retailing  anecdotes  ?     Ilis  Letters 


406  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

(English),  wherein  he  dares  to  carry  his  extravagances  even  to  the 
altar,  will  they  the  less  oblige  him  to  keep  out  of  Paris  all  his  life  ? 
The  '  Elements  of  Newton,'  will  they  ever  be  anything  else  than  the 
exercise  of  a  school-boy  who  stumbles  at  every  step,  a  work  simply 
ridiculous  ?  In  a  word,  will  Voltaire  be  the  less  a  man  dishonored 
in  civilized  society  for  his  low  impostures,  his  rascalities,  his  shameful 
basenesses,  his  thefts,  public  and  private,  and  his  presuming  imperti- 
nence, which  have  drawn  upon  him  hitherto  such  withering  disgraces?" 

Of  these  withering  disgraces  the  young  advocate  appends  a 
descriptive  catalogue  :  "  (1.)  The  deserved  chastisement  which 
he  received  at  Sevres  during  the  regency,  —  a  chastisement 
for  which  he  deemed  himself  well  recompensed  by  the  thou- 
sand crowns  which  his  avarice  accepted  to  console  his  honor. 
(2.)  The  celebrated  treatment  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel  de 
Sully,  in  consequence  of  which  he  was  driven  from  France  for 
the  follies  which  that  noble  basting  caused  him  to  commit. 
(3.)  Basting  again  at  London  from  the  hand  of  an  English 
bookseller,  —  a  grievous  mishap,  which  made  him  earnestly  so- 
licit, and  obtain,  the  favor  of  returning  to  France.  Thus  the 
same  scourge  that  caused  him  to  leave  France  made  him  come 
back,  to  experience  several  other  affronts  of  another  kind. 
When  will  he  be  satiated  with  ignominy  ?  " 

Then  he  came  to  the  aifair  of  the  abba's  committal  to  Bi- 
cetre  :  — 

"  Will  it  be  believed  that  he  who  to-day  brings  against  the 
Abb^  Desfontaines  so  shameful  a  reproach  is  the  self-same 
man  who,  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  ago,  defended  him  against 
it,  and  who  proved  in  a  short  memorial,  drawn  up  by  himself, 
the  falsity  and  absurdity  of  the  accusation  ?  He  did  this  at 
the  solicitation  of  the  late  President  de  Bernieres,  who  good- 
naturedly  lodged  him  in  his  house,  and  whom  Voltaire  pre- 
sumed to  call  his  friend!  The  President  de  Bernieres  the 
friend  of  Voltaire,  grandson  of  a  peasant  !  The  profession  of 
man  of  letters  is  advantageous  indeed.  This  friend  drove 
him  out  of  his  house  in  1726,  after  his  insolent  speech  in 
Madame  Lecouvreur's  box." 

He  repeats  that  the  service  rendered  him  by  Voltaire  in 
1724  was  done  in  mere  deference  to  the  wishes  of  "  a  ben- 
efactor upon  whom  Voltaire  depended,"  who  "  lodged  and 
fed  him,"  and  who  was  an  "  ally  of  the  Abb^  Desfontaines." 


THE  abb6  desfontaines.  407 

He  added,  in  a  parenthesis,  ''  A  scoundrel,  by  his  airs  of  pro- 
tection, compels  us  to  speak  of  this  circumstance."  He  asks 
whether  a  man  standing  in  such  a  relation  to  the  President  de 
Bernieres  could  have  avoided  doing  as  Voltaire  had  done. 

This  was  the  more  audacious  from  the  circumstance  that 
Madame  de  Bernieres  was  still  alive.  But  Desfontaines's 
masterpiece  of  effrontery  was  in  his  meeting  the  chai'ge  of 
having  written  a  libel  against  his  deliverer  just  after  leaving 
Bicetre,  which  libel  Thieriot  had  seen  and  had  made  him 
suppress.  He  attempted  here  to  make  a  breach  between  the 
accuser  and  the  witness. 

"  M.  Thieriot,"  continued  the  young  advocate,  "  is  a  man  as 
much  esteemed  by  worthy  people  as  Voltaire  is  detested  by 
them.  As  if  in  spite  of  himself,  he  draws  after  him  the  dis- 
graceful residue  of  an  old  tie  which  he  has  not  yet  had  the 
resolution  to  break  entirely.  Now  M.  Thieriot,  who  is  cited 
as  a  witness  in  this  affair,  has  been  asked  if  the  statement  was 
true,  and  M.  Thieriot  has  been  obliged  to  say  that  he  had  no 
knowledge  of  it.  Here  we  defy  Voltaire  to  the  proof.  The 
sojourn  at  the  country  house  of  the  late  President  de  Bernieres 
occurred  in  the  vacation  of  1725.  If  a  libel  printed  in  that 
year  exists,  let  it  be  produced.  If  it  is  replied  that  the  abbd 
threw  it  into  the  fire,  let  Voltaire  name  the  witnesses  ;  for 
assuredly  he  ought  not  to  be  believed  upon  his  word.  He 
says  that  M.  Thieriot  obliged  the  abb^  to  throw  it  into  the 
fire  ;  and  here  is  M.  Thieriot,  who  declares  the  falsity  of  the 
statement.  Voltaire,  then,  is  the  most  audacious,  the  most 
insensate,  of  liars." 

The  pamphlet  concluded  by  a  kind  of  apology  for  its  vio- 
lence :  "  I  believe  the  Voltaire  mania  sufficiently  demonstrated 
by  what  I  have  said.  Would  to  God  that  he  was  only  a  mad- 
man !  Worse  than  that,  he  is  false,  impudent,  slanderous. 
Let  him  henceforth  write  what  he  pleases,  whether  prose  or 
verse,  he  has  been  deprived,  or,  rather,  he  has  deprived  him- 
self, of  the  least  credit  in  the  world.  For  the  rest,  however 
he  may  seem   to   have  been  maltreated  here,   we  have   been 

but  too  indulgent And  what  is  more  likely  to  abase 

that  monstrous  pride  of  his,  the  radical  cause  of  all  his  vices 
and  all  his  infamy,  than  the  contents  of  this  salutary  letter, 
which  your  charity  will  not  fail  to  communicate  to  him?  " 


408 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


Having  completed  his  pamphlet,  the  abbe  was  so  well  con- 
tent with  it  that  he  read  it,  as  an  after-dinner  treat,  to  a 
company  of  literary  men  at  the  house  of  the  Marquis  de  Loc- 
Maria.  The  hearers  pronounced  it  "  a  very  gross  libel ;  "  upon 
which  the  author  roared  out  "  in  the  brutal  tone  that  nature 
had  given  him,  and  which  education  had  not  corrected,"  "  Vol- 
taire has  no  other  part  to  take  than  to  go  and  hang  himself."  ^ 

The  pamphlet  was  published  December  14,  1738,  and  it 
had  the  swift  currency  which  savage  assaults  upon  conspicuous 
individuals  usually  have.  Its  sale  was  rapid  and  large.  An 
edition  of  two  thousand  copies,  printed  in  Holland,  was  sold  in 
fifteen  days,  and  the  affair  was  soon  the  talk  of  Europe.  Life, 
meanwhile,  at  the  chateau  of  Cirey  was  going  its  usual  train : 
Voltaire  hard  at  work  upon  his  new  tragedy  of  "  Mei'ope,"  of 
which  he  had  the  highest  hopes  ;  madame  absorbed  by  turns 
in  her  lawsuit  and  her  studies  ;  the  marquis,  anticipating  a 
successful  result  of  the  suit,  in  treaty  for  a  new  hQtel  in  Paris, 
price  two  hundred  thousand  francs.  From  various  causes, 
Thieriot  had  been  much  in  their  thoucrhts  of  late.  He  had 
spent  two  or  three  weeks  at  the  chateau  in  October  of  this 
year,  and  while  he  was  there,  Desfontaines  being  a  topic  at  the 
dinner  table,  one  day,  he  had  told  the  Bicetre  anecdote,  — 
how  the  abbe,  fresh  from  prison,  had  written  a  libel  against  his 
benefactor.  jSIadame  was  a  little  jealous  of  this  comrade  of 
Voltaire's  youth,  but  she  gave  him  a  cordial  reception  and 
hospitable  entertainment.  On  his  departure,  Voltaire,  under 
pretense  of  assisting  him  to  pack  his  valise,  had  slipped  into  it 
a  rouleau  of  fifty  golden  louis,  which  Thieriot  did  not  discover 
until  he  had  reached  Paris. 

Madame  du  Chatelet  received  a  copy  of  "  La  Voltairomanie  " 
on  Christmas  Day,  and  read  it  with  such  feelings  as  we  can 
imagine.  "  I  have  just  read  that  frightful  libel,"  she  wrote 
to  their  "guardian  angel,"  D'Argental.  "I  am  in  despair.  I 
am  more  afraid  of  the  sensitiveness  of  vour  friend  than  of  the 
public  ;  for  I  am  persuaded  that  the  cries  of  that  mad  dog  can 
do  no  harm.  I  have  kept  it  from  him  ;  his  fever  having  only 
left  him  to-day.  He  fainted  yesterday  twice  ;  he  is  extremely 
debilitated,  and  I  should  fear  tlie  worst  if,  in  his  present  con- 
dition, his  feelings  should  experience  a  violent  shock.  Upon 
1  Letter  quoted  in  Voltaire  au  Chateau  de  Cirey,  par  Desnoircsterres,  page  175. 


THE  ABBfi  DESFONTAINES.  409 

such  matters  his  sensitiveness  is  extreme.  His  Holland  book- 
sellers, the  return  of  Rousseau  to  Paris,  and  this  libel  are 
enouo;h  to  kill  him.  There  is  no  fraud  which  I  do  not  invent 
to  conceal  from  him  news  so  afflicting."  She  continued  to  in- 
vent her  amiable  frauds  during  the  whole  holiday  week ;  and, 
thinking  that  some  reply  to  the  pamphlet  was  necessary,  she 
wrote  one  herself,  which  has  been  published  among  her  works 
in  recent  times. 

But  Voltaire  had  had  the  pamphlet  all  the  time,  and  had 
employed  similar  frauds  to  hide  it  from  her.  She  appeal's  to 
have  made  this  discovery  on  New  Year's  Day  ;  when,  to  her 
great  relief,  he  took  the  affair  with  perfect  coolness,  seeming 
only  to  be  concerned  for  its  effect  upon  her  mind.  He  told 
her  there  was  no  occasion  to  make  any  formal  reply  to  an  at- 
tack so  absurdly  violent.  Their  proper  course,  he  thought, 
was  to  treat  it  merely  as  a  criminal  libel,  prepare  refuting  tes- 
timony, and  apply  to  the  law  for  redress.  He  had  already 
begun  proceedings ;  had  already  sent  to  the  Abbe  Moussinot 
to  buy  a  copy  of  the  pamphlet  in  the  presence  of  two  wit- 
nesses, and  to  file  the  preliminary  papers.  Madame  de  Berni- 
eres  promptly  gave  her  testimony  that  he  had  paid  rent  for 
his  rooms  at  her  house ;  and,  fortunately,  he  was  a  man  who 
"never  cast  receipts  away,"  and  even  his  contract  with  the 
late  president  was  on  file  at  his  brother's  office  in  Paris.  As 
to  the  evidence  of  Thieriot,  that  could  not  fail  to  be  forthcom- 
ing with  equal  promptitude.  All  the  knowledge  he  had  ever 
possessed  of  the  Bicetre  libel  was  obtained  from  Thieriot's 
spontaneous  communications,  and  he  could  not  doubt  the  lo}''- 
alty  of  an  old  comrade,  who  owed  all  his  importance  in  the 
world  to  his  connection  with  himself. 

But  Thieriot  was  silent!  The  " Voltairomanie "  had  been 
circulating  ten  days,  and  still  no  word  from  Thieriot !  All  the 
inmates  of  the  chateau  were  amazed  and  confounded.  Voltaire 
was  cut  to  the  heart.  He  was  aware  that  Desfontaines  had 
felt  his  ground  with  Thieriot  before  publishing  the  pamphlet, 
for  Tiiieriot  himself  had  told  him  so,  and  Voltaire  had  ad- 
vised him  to  make  no  terms  with  the  abbe.  "  You  are  trying," 
he  wrote,  "  to  conciliate  a  monster  whom  you  detest  and  fear. 
I  have  less  prudence.  I  hate  him  ;  I  despise  him  ;  I  am  not 
afraid  of  him ;  and  I  shall  lose  no  opportunity  to  punish  him.    I 


410  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

know  how  to  hate,  because  I  know  how  to  love.  His  base  in- 
gratitude, the  greatest  of  all  the  vices,  has  rendered  me  irrec- 
oncilable." 

In  this  passage  we  have  the  simple  explanation  of  Thieriot's 
silence.  Like  many  better  men  than  himself,  and  like  many- 
men  worse  than  himself,  he  was  afraid  of  the  editorial  pen ;  he 
dared  not  face  the  weekly  abuse  of  a  widely-circulated  journal. 
It  was  this  conduct  of  his  old  friend,  and  not  Desfontaines's 
crude  and  lumbering  abuse,  that  threw  Voltaire  into  those  con- 
vulsions of  which  Madame  de  Grafigny  was  a  witness,  in  the 
early  days  of  1739.  He  wrote  to  Thieriot  the  most  eloquent 
and  affectionate  letters,  remonstrating,  pleading,  arguing.  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  wrote  to  him.  The  marquis,  who  was  no 
letter  writer,  dispatched  a  long  epistle  to  the  cowai'dly  parasite, 
urging  him  to  do  his  duty;  "  The  extreme  friendship,"  he 
wrote,  "  which  I  have  for  M.  de  Voltaire,  and  the  knowledge 
which  I  possess  of  his  friendship  for  you,  and  the  essential  proofs 
of  it  which  he  has  given  you,  induce  me  to  write  to  persuade  you 
to  do  what  you  owe  to  friendship  and  to  truth."  The  Prince 
Royal  of  Prussia  was  enlisted  in  the  cause,  Thieriot  being  his 
literary  correspondent  and  Paris  express  agent. 

Thieriot  struggled  hard  to  escape  this  dilemma.  He  wi'ote 
thus  to  Madame  du  Chatelet  with  regard  to  the  Bicetre  libel : 
"  I  have  been  much  questioned  concerning  the  truth  of  that 
statement,  and  this  has  been  my  answer :  that  I  simply  remem- 
bered the  fact,  but  that,  with  regard  to  the  circumstances,  they 
had  so  little  remained  in  my  memory  that  I  could  render  no 
account  of  them ;  and  that  is  not  extraordinary,  after  so  many 
years.  All  the  information,  then,  madame,  which  I  can  give 
you  is  that,  in  those  times,  at  M.  de  Bernieres's  country-house, 
there  was  conversation  concerning  a  piece  against  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, which,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  filled  a  copy-book 
of  forty  to  fifty  pages.  The  Abb^  Desfontaines  showed  it  to 
me,  and  I  engaged  him  to  suppress  it.  As  to  the  date  and  title 
of  that  writing  (circumstances  very  important  in  this  case),  I 
protest,  on  my  honor,  that  I  remember  nothing  of  them." 

This  was  terrible,  and  may  well  have  throAvn  a  too  suscepti- 
ble friend  into  something  like  convulsions.  Voltaire  searched 
among  his  letters  of  that  time,  and  found  three  or  four  of 
Thieriot's  in  which  he  had  written  of  the  libel.     August  16, 


THE   ABBf:  DESFONTAINES.  411 

1726,  he  had  written  thus :  "  Desfontaines  in  the  time  of  his 
imprisonment  [dans  le  temjJS  de  Bicetre]  wrote  against  you  a 
satirical  work,  which  I  made  him  throw  into  the  fire."  In 
conversation  he  had  mentioned  the  title  of  the  piece,  "  Apolo- 
gie  du  Sieur  de  Voltaire,"  which  was  not  thrown  into  the  fire, 
for  it  has  since  been  printed,  and  is  now  accessible.  Never 
was  such  pressure  brought  to  bear  upon  a  reluctant  witness  as 
upon  Thieriot  during  the  first  weeks  of  the  year  1739.  The 
"stout  lady,"  Madame  de  Champbonin,  made  a  journey  to 
Paris  to  add  the  weight  of  her  personal  influence.  He  made 
some  concessions,  at  length,  and  joined  the  friends  and  family 
of  Voltaire  in  demanding  justice  against  the  libeler. 

It  was  customary  then,  it  appears,  for  the  friends  and  rela- 
tions of  a  man  bringing  a  libel  suit  to  go  in  a  body  before  the 
magistrate  when  the  complaint  was  presented.  The  reader 
need  scarcely  be  informed  that  Voltaire  neglected  no  means 
to  enforce  his  demand. 

"  Fly,  my  dear  friend,"  he  writes  to  Moussinot;  "give  the 

inclosed  letter  to  my  nephew I  entreat  him  to  stir  up 

some  of  my  relations.  Join  yourself  to  them  and  to  Madamfe 
de  Champbonin.  Do  your  part :  move  the  Procopes,  the  An- 
dris,  and  even  the  indolent  Pitaval,  the  Abb^  Seran  de  La 
Tours,  the  Du  Perrons  de  Castera  ;  make  them  sign  a  new  req- 
uisition. Offer  them  carriages,  and,  with  your  ordinary  ad- 
dress and  tact,  pay  all  the  expenses.  Add  De  Monhi  to  the 
crowd ;  promise  him  some  money,  but  do  not  give  him  any. 
You  must,  my  dear  friend,  call  yourself  my  relation,  as  ]Ma- 
dame  de  Champbonin  does.  All  of  you  go  in  a  body  to  the 
audience  with  the  chancellor.  Nothing  produces  so  great  an 
effect  upon  the  mind  of  a  judge  well  disposed  as  the  attendance 
of  a  numerous  family Spare  neither  money  nor  prom- 
ises ;  it  is  necessary  to  rouse  men,  to  excite  them  powerfully,  in 
order  to  make  them  do  right.     I   think  it  essential  that  my 

friend  Thieriot  should  join  my  relations  and  defenders 

Let  us  neglect  nothing ;  let  us  push  the  scoundrel  by  all  the 

means  in  our  power Justice  is  like  the  kingdom  of 

heaven,  and  the  violent  take  it  by  force." 

Nor  did  he  neglect  to  circulate  in  Paris  satirical  reflections 
upon  his  antagonist  and  the  odious  offense  charged  against  him, 
which  no  Frenchman  of  that  day,  nor  Frenchwoman  either, 


412  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

could  resist.  One  anonymous  letter,  written  at  Cirey,  des- 
canted upon  Desfontaines's  memorial  in  a  strain  like  this :  "  He 
calls  himself  a  man  of  qualit}^  because  he  has  a  brother  who 
is  auditor  of  accounts  at  Rouen.  He  entitles  himself  a  man  of 
good  morals,  because  he  has  been  only  a  few  days  at  the  Cha- 
telet  and  Bicetre.  He  says  that  he  goes  always  with  a  lackey; 
but  he  does  not  specify  whether  this  bold  lackey  goes  before  or 
behind ;  and  this  is  not  a  case  to  pretend  that  it  is  no  matter 
which.  Finally,  he  pushes  his  effrontery  so  far  as  to  say  that 
he  has  some  friends.  This  is  to  attack  cruelly  the  human  race." 
There  were  several  pages  of  this  letter,  in  mingled  prose  and 
verse,  each  sentence  a  distinct  and  cutting  epigram. 

The  friends  of  Voltaire  rallied  in  great  force,  and  displayed 
extraordinary  zeal.  Besides  Madame  de  Champbonin,  the 
Marquis  du  Chatelet  came  to  Paris  on  this  business,  and  lent 
the  weight  of  his  ancient  name  to  the  support  of  the  person 
who  occupied  his  place  at  home.  The  Prince  Royal  of  Prus- 
sia wrote  to  the  French  ambassador  at  .his  father's  court,  ask- 
ing him  to  make  known  to  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury  his  warm 
interest  in  Voltaire's  cause. ^  Desfontaines  discovered,  before 
the  spring  months  were  over,  that  his  antagonist  had  struck 
down  too  many  roots  in  his  native  soil  to  be  overthrown  by 
one  rude,  unskillful  blow.  Voltaire  tired  out  friend  and  foe, 
masistrates  and  ministers.  His  letters  of  these  three  or  four 
months  are  wonderful  for  their  number,  length,  intensity, 
acuteness,  and  fertility  of  suggestion.  It  must  have  seemed  to 
all  the  parties  and  to  the  public  that  never  again  could  there 
be  peace  in  Europe  until  that  indefatigable  and  indomitable 
spirit  at  the  chateau  of  Cirey  was  appeased.  Desfontaines 
was  finally  notified  that  he  had  only  the  choice  to  retract  or  go 
to  prison  again.  Voltaire  had  always  disavowed  "  Le  Preser- 
vatif ;  "  he  must  disavow  "  La  Voltairomanie."  The  Marquis 
d'Argenson,  on  the  part  of  the  administration  of  justice,  pre- 
pared the  draft  of  such  a  disavowal  and  retraction  as  was  re- 
quired, which  the  a,hh6  copied  and  signed  :  — 

"  I  declare  that  I  am  not  the  author  of  a  printed  libel  en- 
titled "  La  Voltairomanie,"  and  that  I  disavow  it  in  its  en- 
tirety, regarding  as  calumnious  all  the  charges  bi'ought  against 
M.  de  Voltaire  in  that  libel ;  and  that  I  should  have  cousid- 

1  Frederic  to  Voltaire,  1739. 


THE   ABBE  DESFONTAINES.  413 

ered  myself  dishonored  if  I  had  had  the  least  share  in  that 
writing,  having  for  him  all  the  sentiments  of  esteem  due  to 
his  talents,  and  which  the  public  so  justly  accords  him.  Done 
at  Paris,  this  4th  April,  1739." 

Voltaire  was  not  satisfied,  but  gradually  yielded  to  the  en- 
treaties of  his  friends  to  molest  the  abb^  no  more.  Three 
weeks  after,  he  wrote  to  his  faithful  Moussinot:  "  Let  us  speak 
no  more  of  Desfontaines ;  I  am  ill  avenged,  but  I  am  avenged. 
Give  two  hundred  francs  to  Madame  de  Champbonin,  and  that 
with  the  best  grace  in  the  world  ;  another  hundred  to  De 
Mouhi,  telling  him  you  have  no  more."  With  surprising  fa- 
cility, he  half  forgave  Thieriot,  repeating  one  of  his  favorite 
maxims :  "  When  two  old  friends  separate,  it  is  discreditable 
to  both."  He  knew  his  man,  and,  perhaps,  also  suspected  that 
the  date  of  the  Bicetre  libel  was  such  as  Desfontaines  claimed ; 
that  is,  before  Voltaire  had  rendered  him  the  service.  What 
is  most  surprising  in  this  affair  is  the  little  regard  for  truth 
shown  by  every  individual  involved  in  it.  They  all  lied,  like 
ill-taught  children,  —  not  only  the  antagonists,  but  all  their 
friends  ;  and  the  final  disavowal  was  known  to  be  a  falsehood 
by  the  honorable  magistrate  who  drew  it,  as  well  as  by  the 
odious  individual  who  signed  it. 

Desfontaines  continued  his  editorial  career,  and  occasionally 
had  a  safe  opportunity  to  indulge  his  rancor  against  Voltaire. 
The  Essays  upon  Fire,  written  at  Cirey,  were  soon  after  pub- 
lished. He  criticised  Voltaire's  with  severity,  and  extolled 
Madame  du  Chatelet's  to  the  skies.  Her  dissertation,  he  said, 
was  "  full  of  spirit  and  erudition,  of  things  curious  and  pleas- 
ing." She  was  "'  a  phenomenon  of  literature,  knowledge,  and 
grace ;  "  and  "  if  any  one  was  capable  of  giving  France  a  com- 
plete course  of  natural  philosophy,  it  was  the  illustrious  lady 
whose  genius  and  learning  the  Academy  of  Sciences  had  es- 
teemed." 1 

1  2  L'Esprit  de  I'Abbe  Desfontaines,  201. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 


FREDERIC  BECOMES   KING   OF  PRUSSIA. 


Voltaire  came  out  of  this  contest  a  victor,  but  sorely 
wounded  in  body  and  mind;  "his  health,"  as  Madame  du 
Chatelet  wrote  in  April,  1739,  was  "  in  a  state  so  deplorable 
that  I  have  no  longer  any  hope  of  restoring  it  except  through 
the  bustle  of  a  journey  and  a  change  of  air.  It  is  sad  to  be 
reduced  to  such  a  condition  by  a  Desfontaines."  An  occasion 
for  a  long  journey  occurred  that  spring.  Through  the  death 
of  the  aged  Marquis  de  Trichateau,  cousin  of  M.  du  Chatelet, 
there  was  not  only  an  increase  of  the  family  estate,  but  an  ad- 
ditional hold  upon  that  lawsuit  of  eighty  years'  standing, 
which  was  so  frequent  a  topic  at  the  chateau.  The  new  ac- 
quisitions of  land  lay  in  Flanders,  a  few  miles  from  Brussels, 
and  the  suit  had  to  be  tried  in  the  courts  of  "  the  empire,"  to 
which  Flanders  then  belonged.  The  Prince  Royal  of  Prussia, 
too,  while  warning  madame  of  the  interminable  delays  of  the 
Austrian  judges,  had  promised  to  do  what  he  could  to  acceler- 
ate her  cause.  "  They  say,"  he  wrote  in  January,  1739,  "  that 
if  the  imperial  court  owes  a  box  on  the  ear  to  some  one  it  is 
necessary  to  solicit  three  years  before  getting  payment."  But 
Frederic  knew  intimately  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  the  Prince 
d'Aremberg,  all  powerful  in  the  Low  Countries,  and  through 
them  he  hoped  to  quicken  the  pace  of  the  cause  through  the 
courts. 

On  the  8th  of  ]\Iay,  1739,  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet,  Ma- 
dame la  Marquise,  Koenig,  her  new  tutor  in  mathematics, 
Voltaire,  and  a  numerous  retinue  of  servants  left  the  chateau 
at  Cirey  for  a  very  leisurely  journey  to  Brussels,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  distant,  which  they  accomplislied  in  twenty 
days.  Voltaire  had  lived  thi-ee  successive  years  at  Cirey.  A 
long  period  was  to  elapse  before  he  again  remained  three  years 
under  one  roof ;  for  his  connection  with  this  family,  so  far  from 


PEEDERIC   BECOMES   KING  OF  PRUSSIA.  415 

affording  him  the  peace  and  quiet  he  needed,  only  added  their 
perplexities  and  excitements  to  his  own,  which  were  numerous 
enough  without  that  large  addition.  He  was  an  appendage 
who  should  have  been  chief.  This  lawsuit  was  his  lawsuit, 
as  his  affair  with  Desfontaines  had  been  theirs  also.  Upon 
reaching  Brussels,  they  rode  out  together  to  see  the  new  es- 
tate. Returning  soon,  madame,  head  of  the  family,  hired  a 
large  furnished  house  in  a  secluded  quarter  of  Brussels,  and 
the  whole  party  settled  to  their  several  occupations :  she  to 
law  papers,  German,  and  mathematics,  rising  at  six  to  study, 
dreading  to  disgust  Professor  Koenig  with  her  inaptitude ;  the 
marquis,  who  was  soon  to  depart,  to  the  calm  digestion  of  his 
daily  rations ;  Voltaire  to  his  new  tragedies  and  his  "  Louis 
XIV.,"  not  declining  his  share  of  the  law  business.  Madame 
was  resolved  to  win  her  suit.  She  studied  every  document, 
law  precedent,  and  usage  bearing  upon  it,  and  had  that  entire 
confidence  in  the  justice  of  her  cause  which  is  the  aggravating 
privilege  of  clients. 

But  these  were  not  people  to  give  themselves  wholly  up  to 
labor.  Brussels  had  been  for  many  years  the  abode  of  J.  B. 
Rousseau ;  the  Duke  d'Aremberg  having  given  the  exiled  poet 
honorable  asylum,  for  which  the  duke  is  now  chiefly  remem- 
bered. Later,  he  withdrew  his  favor  from  Rousseau,  and  the 
poet  lived  in  obscurity  in  a  city  where  the  arts  were  held  in 
little  esteem.  Voltaire,  still  burning  with  wrath  against  him, 
desired  to  show  the  people  of  Brussels  that  he  was  still  a  per- 
sonage, in  spite  of  the  devout  libels  of  Rousseau  and  the  lum- 
bering assaults  of  Desfontaines.  He  was  willing,  also,  to  let 
them  know  that  a  French  poet  was  not  of  necessity  dependent 
on  a  prince's  bounty.  He  gave  a  fete,  in  the  style  of  a  "  gar- 
den party,"  to  Madame  du  Chatelet,  the  Princess  of  Chimai, 
and  the  Duke  d'Aremberg,  to  which  he  invited  the  society  of 
Brussels.  The  invitations  were  given  in  the  name  of  the 
"  Envoy  from  Utopia,"  though  he  confesses  he  had  never  read 
Sir  Thomas  More's  work  upon  that  island,  and  discovered  that 
not  one  person  in  all  Brussels  had  ever  heard  of  it,  or  knew 
what  the  word  Utopia  meant.  The  party  was  perfectly  suc- 
cessful, and  made  the  house  a  social  centre  to  the  world  of 
Brussels.  A  deplorable  incident,  however,  rendered  the  occa- 
sion one  of  misery  to  himself.     In  the  morning,  as  he  was  su- 


416 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


perintending  the  preparations  for  the  fireworks,  two  of  his  car- 
penters fell  from  the  height  of  the  third  story  at  his  feet,  and 
covered  him  with  their  blood.  He  almost  lost  consciousness, 
and  was  some  days  in  recovering  from  the  shock. 

The  Duke  d'Aremberg  invited  the  strangers,  in  return,  to 
his  castle  at  Enghien  twenty  miles  away,  where  Rousseau  had 
lived.  There  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  himself  spent  a  week 
or  two,  joining  in  the  noble  game  of  killing  time,  the  chief 
employment  then  of  princes.  "  I  play  a  good  deal  at  brelan,^' 
he  wrote  to  Helvetius,  "  but  our  dear  studies  lose  nothing  by 
it.  It  is  necessary  to  ally  labor  and  pleasure."  He  found  Flan- 
ders very  much  what  Charlotte  Bronte  found  it  a  hundred  years 
later :  "  It  is  not  the  land  of  belles-lettres I  am  in  a  cha- 
teau wherein  there  were  never  any  books  except  those  brought 
by  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  myself  ;  but,  by  way  of  compen- 
sation, there  are  gardens  more  beautiful  than  those  of  Chan- 
tilly,  and  we  lead  here  that  luxurious  and  easy  life  which 
makes  the  country  so  agreeable.  The  possessor  of  this  beau- 
tiful retreat  is  of  more  value  than  many  books  ;  "  particularly, 
he  might  have  added,  to  an  anthor  gathering  historic  material ; 
for  the  Duke  d'Aremberg  had  been  wounded  at  Malplaquet, 
had  served  under  Prince  Eugene,  had  been  part  of  all  the  mil- 
itary history  of  his  time.  These  superb  gardens  exist  at  the 
present  day,  and  the  chateau  itself  has  been  demolished  only 
a  few  years.  Visitors  are  shown  a  Mount  Parnassus  there, 
upon  which  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  may  have  stood,  as  well  as 
some  walks  shaded  by  ancient,  interlaced  shrubbery,  under 
which  they  must  often  have  walked,  though  not  together. 
After  a  round  of  splendid  festivity  at  Enghien,  to  which  the 
visitors  added  the  intellectual  element  of  comedy,  they  re- 
turned to  Brussels. 

But  there  was  no  resting-place  there  for  a  poet.  The  busi- 
ness of  the  suit  obliged  madame,  six  weeks  later,  to  go  and 
pass  a  month  in  Paris,  where  also  Voltaire  had  business,  two 
tragedies  at  once  being  ready  for  submission  to  the  actors.  In 
September  they  were  in  the  metropolis.  Paris  was  in  festival, 
for  the  king's  eldest  daughter  was  just  mai-ried  to  the  Prince 
Royal  of  Spain,  and  the  king  was  lavishing  millions  in  tasteless 
magnificences,  which,  Voltaire  thought,  would  have  been  bet- 
ter employed  in  permanent  improvements. 


I 


FREDERIC   BECOMES   KING   OF  PRUSSIA.  417 

"  Paris  [as  he  wrote  to  "  the  stout  lady "  of  Cirey,  Madame  de 
Champbonin, — "big  tom-cat,"  as  he  loved  to  call  her]  is  an  abyss, 
wherein  we  lose  our  repose  and  serenity  of  mind,  without  which  life  is 
a  weaiisome  tumult.  I  do  not  live  ;  I  am  carried,  drawn  far  from  my- 
self in  whirlwinds.  I  go,  I  come  ;  I  sup  at  the  end  of  the  city,  to  sup 
the  next  day  at  the  other  end.  From  a  society  of  three  or  four  inti- 
mate friends,  I  must  fiy  to  the  opera,  to  the  theatre,  to  see  some  curi- 
osities as  a  stranger,  to  embiace  a  hundred  persons  in  a  day,  to  make 
and  receive  a  hundred  protestations  ;  not  a  moment  to  myself ;  no 
time  to  write,  think,  or  sleep.     I   am  like  that  personage  of  old  who 

died   smothered  under  the  flowers   that  were  thrown  to  him 

Such  is  our  life,  my  dear  gros  chat  ;  and  you,  tranquil  on  your  roof, 
laugh  at  our  escapades  ;  and,  for  myself,  I  regret  those  moments  so  full 
of  delight  which  we  enjoyed  at  Cirey,  with  our  friends  and  one  an- 
other. What  is,  then,  that  bundle  of  books  which  has  reached  Cirey  ? 
Is  it  a  packet  of  works  against  me  ?  I  will  mention  to  you,  in  pass- 
ing, that  there  is  no  more  question  here  of  the  Desfontaines  horrors  than 
if  he  and  his  monsters  of  children  had  never  existed.  That  wretch  can 
no  more  thrust  himself  into  good  company  at  Paris  than  Rousseau  can 
at  Brussels.  They  are  spiders,  which  are  not  found  in  well-kept  houses. 
My  dear  gros  chat,  I  kiss  a  thousand  times  your  velvet  paws." 

This  mode  of  existence,  which  did  not  prevent  Madame  du 
Chatelet  from  continuing  her  studies,  was  fatal  to  the  produc- 
tion of  dramatic  poetry,  which  required,  as  Voltaire  wrote  to 
Mademoiselle  Quinault,  "  the  whole  soul  of  the  poet,  a  serenity 
the  most  profound,  an  enthusiasm  the  most  intense,  a  patience 
the  most  docile."  In  November,  without  having  seen  either 
of  his  new  plays  in  rehearsal,  he  set  out  with  madame  on  his 
return,  taking  Cirey  on  their  way,  and  before  Christmas  they 
were  settled  once  more  in  Brussels,  immersed  in  law,  mathe- 
matics, and  literature. 

The  new  year,  1740,  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  Vol- 
taire's life.  The  King  of  Prussia  was  fast  failing,  and  the 
Prince  Royal,  his  heir,  was  giving  to  Voltaire  and  to  Europe 
the  most  engaging  promise  of  a  reign  peaceful  and  noble  be- 
yond example.  Never  before  had  their  correspondence  been 
so  frequent,  so  tender,  so  enthusiastic.  The  prince  had  set  his 
heart  upon  editing  and  publishing  the  most  superb  edition 
of  "  La  Henriade  "  that  art  and  expense  could  produce.  He 
meant  to  have  the   poem   printed  from  engraved   plates,  as 

music  was  then  printed,  and  he  was  in  correspondence  on  the 
VOL.  I.  27 


418 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


subject  with  persons  in  England,  where  the  work  was  to  be 
done.  Finding  unexpected  difficulties  in  the  way,  he  imported 
from  England  a  font  of  silvei'-faced  type,  and  set  all  the  artists 
and  engravers  of  Berlin  at  work  executing  vignettes  and  other 
illustrations.  "  Whatever  the  cost,"  he  wrote  to  the  author, 
"  we  shall  produce  a  masterpiece  worthy  of  the  poem  which  it 
will  present  to  the  public."  Frederic  composed  an  elaborate 
introduction,  in  which  he  extolled  the  poem  in  a  manner  so 
extravagant  that  the  poet  begged  him  to  moderate  his  eulo- 
gium.  The  prince  denied  him  this  favor,  and  the  introduc- 
tion, as  we  now  have  it  in  the  roval  edition  of  Frederic's 
works,  ranks  "  La  Henriade  "  above  the  "  -iiEneid,"  above  the 
"  Iliad,"  and,  indeed,  above  all  that  man  had  produced  of  ex- 
cellent and  finished  in  epic  poetry.^ 

Aside  from  this  excess  of  praise,  the  preface  was  well  cal- 
culated to  strengthen  Voltaire's  position  in  France.  Fred- 
eric, writing  while  the  affair  of  Desfontaines  was  fresh  in  the 
public  mind,  hurls  anathemas  at  those  "  half-learned  men, 
those  creatures  amphibious  of  erudition  and  ignorance,  those 
wretches,  themselves  without  talent,  who  persistently  perse- 
cute men  whose  brilliant  genius  throws  them  into  eclipse ;  " 
and  he  endeavors  to  show  France  how  unworthy  it  was  of  her 
to  menace  and  maltreat  a  man  who  was  the  wonder  and  glory 
of  his  age  and  country.  The  prince  quotes  but  three  lines 
from  the  poem,  —  the  apostrophe  to  Friendship  in  the  eighth 
canto,  in  which  kings  are  spoken  of  as  "  illustrious  ingrates, 
who  are  so  unhappy  as  not  to  know  friendship."  Frederic 
did  not  "  stand  by  his  order." 

Voltaire,  never  weary  of  correcting  his  works,  sent  the 
prince  a  number  of.  passages  for  insertion  in  the  new  edition, 
one  or  two  of  which  had  in  them  so  much  of  the  Bastille  flavor 
that  Frederic  advised  him  not  to  print  them  in  any.  French 
edition  of  the  poem:  "  My  dear  Voltaire,  avoid  giving  a  pre- 
text to  the  race  of  bigots,  and  fear  your  persecutors.  There 
is  nothing  more  cruel  than  to  be  suspected  of  irreligion.  In 
vain  one  makes  all  imaginable  efforts  to  escape  the  odium  of 
it ;  the  accusation  lasts  always.  I  speak  from  experience  ; 
and  I  perceive  that  extreme  circumspection  is  necessary  upon 
a  matter  of  which  dotards  [so^s]  make  a  principal  point. 
1  8  CEuvres  de  Frederic  le  Grand,  49,  51.    Berlin,  1847. 


FREDEKIC  BECOMES  KING  OF  PRUSSIA.  419 

Voltaire,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  was  favored  with  many 
reams  of  advice  of  this  kind.  Frederic  often  joined  Madame 
du  Chatelet  in  the  well-meant  endeavor  to  "  save  him  from 
himself,"  —  which  would  have  been  to  annihilate  himself. 
The  passage  which  the  prince  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote 
thus  remains  in  the  poem  (canto  vii.  line  56)  :  "  Soft  Hy- 
pocrisy, with  eyes  full  of  sweetness,  —  heaven  in  her  eyes,  hell 
in  her  heart,"  —  ending  with  the  lines  in  which  the  church 
is  represented  as  having  inspired  and  hallowed  assassination 
in  the  religious  wars :  "  In  Paris,  cruel  priests  dared  to  soil 
the  holy  altars  with  the  portrait  of  Valois's  assassin.  The 
League  invoked  him  ;  Rome  extolled  him ;  here  in  torments 
hell  disavows  him."  Such  a  passage,  the  prince  added,  was 
fit  to  be  published  only  in  a  country  like  England,  where  "  it 
is  permitted  to  a  man  not  to  be  stupid,  and  to  utter  all  his 
thought." 

The  zeal  of  the  prince  in  producing  this  sumptuous  edition 
was  indefatigable.  He  had  a  world  of  trouble  with  it,  as 
men  usually  have  who  meddle  with  other  trades  than  their 
own ;  but  he  was  sustained  by  a  heart-felt  conviction  that  the 
delineation  given  in  the  poem  of  the  religious  wars  —  "  the 
baleful  work  of  wicked  priests  and  false  zeal  "  — was  a  lesson 
to  kings  and  people  of  unspeakable  value,  which  could  not 
be  too  often  repeated  nor  too  strongly  emphasized.  "  An  idle 
prince,  in  my  opinion,"  he  wrote,  "  is  an  animal  of  little  use 
to  the  world.  At  least  it  is  my  desire  to  serve  my  age  in  all 
that  depends  upon  me.  I  wish  to  contribute  to  the  immor- 
tality of  a  work  useful  to  the  universe ;  I  wish  to  spread 
abroad  a  poem  in  which  the  author  teaches  the  duty  of  nobles 
and  the  duty  of  peoples,  a  mode  of  reigning  little  known 
among  princes,  and  a  way  of  thinking  that  would  have  enno- 
bled the  gods  of  Homer." 

Under  the  inspiration  of  Voltaire,  he  even  determined  to 
become  himself  an  author.  At  this  time,  the  last  year  of  his 
liberty  and  leisure,  he  wrote  his  "  Anti-Machiavelli,"  or  crit- 
ical examination  of  Machiavelli's  "  Prince,"  a  work  which  he 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  mischievous  that  had  ever  ap- 
peared. He  told  Voltaire  that  he  meant  his  treatise  as  "  a 
sequel  to  '  La  Henriade.'  "  "  Upon  the  grand  sentiments  of 
Henry  IV.  I  forge  the  thunder-bolts  that  will  crush  Caesar 


420  L[FE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

Borgia,"  he  wrote  in  his  first  enthusiasm  ;  and  the  work  con- 
tinued for  many  months  to  be  a  leading  topic  in  their  cor- 
respondence. The  "  Anti-Machiavelli "  is  a  dissertation  in 
twenty-six  chapters,  wherein  the  maxims  by  which  Machi- 
avelli  inculcates  the  art  of  despotism  are  demolished  in  the 
best  manner  of  a  young  man  whose  virtue  has  not  yet  been 
brought  to  "  the  fatal  touch-stone  "  of  opportunity.  Voltaire 
might  well  anticipate,  as  he  read  the  chapters  sent  him  by 
the  prince,  that  Europe  was  about  to  see  a  powerful  and  ris- 
ing state  governed  on  Arcadian  principles.  How  eloquently 
did  the  prince  descant  upon  the  barbarous  kings  who  pre- 
ferred "  the  fatal  glory  of  conquerors  to  that  won  by  kindness, 
justice,  clemency,  and  all  the  virtues  !  "  He  wondered  —  he 
who  was  to  invade  and  annex  Silesia  within  the  year —  "what 
could  induce  a  man  to  aggrandize  himself  through  the  misery 
and  destruction  of  other  men."  "  How  monstrous,  how  ab- 
surd, the  attempt  to  render  one's  self  ilkistrious  through  mak- 
ing others  miserable  !  "  "  The  new  conquests  of  a  sovereign 
do  not  render  the  states  more  opulent  which  he  already  pos- 
sesses ;  his  subjects  gain  nothing  ;  and  he  deludes  himself  if 
he  imagines  he  will  be  more  happy."  Again  :  "  It  is  not  the 
magnitude  of  the  country  a  prince  governs  which  constitutes 
his  glory."  ^  Twenty-six  chapters  of  such  virtue-in-words, 
so  easy,  so  delusive,  make  up  the  "Anti-Machiavelli  "  of  Fred- 
eric of  Prussia.  Those  words  were  evidently  sincere.  They 
were  as  sincere  as  the  eloquent  composition  of  a  student  upon 
temperance,  which  he  delivers  to  admiration  at  eleven  A.  M., 
and  who  is  led  home  at  eleven  P.  M.  of  the  same  day,  some- 
thing the  worse  for  his  supper. 

It  is  given  to  Frenchmen,  as  to  ladies,  to  shed  tears  easily. 
These  noble  sentiments,  uttered  by  a  young  man  who  was 
about  to  ascend  a  throne  and  command  an  army  of  a  hundred 
thousand  men,  brought  rapturous  tears  to  Voltaire's  eyes,  and 
he  delighted  to  call  the  prince  the  modern  Marcus  Aurelius 
and  the  Solomon  of  the  North.  He  did  more.  He  pointed  out 
the  faults  and  defects  of  the  work  with  considerable  frankness, 
wrote  a  preface  for  it,  and  undertook  the  charge  of  getting  it 
printed  and  published. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  lives  of  these  two  kings  so  amiable 

1  9  CEuvres  Frederic  le  Grand,  69,  70. 


FKEDERIC  BECOMES   KING  OF  PRUSSIA.  421 

and  pleasing  as  this  early  romantic  phase  of  their  long  friend- 
ship, before  either  had  seen  anything  of  the  other  but  his  most 
real  self  —  the  man  as  he  would  have  been  if  his  streuffth  had 
been  equal  to  his  disposition,  or  if  he  had  been  born  in  a  much 
less  difficult  world  than  the  one  he  actually  inhabited.  The 
prince's  daily  thought  was  to  gratify  and  glorify  a  beloved 
Master,  who  gave  his  pupil  an  ample  return  of  such  wit  and 
wisdom  as  he  possessed.  Frederic  consulted  his  own  physician 
upon  Voltaire's  case  ;  sent  him  medicines  and  receipts  ;  sent 
him  casks  of  Hungarian  wine,  then  much  valued  for  weak 
stomachs  ;  and  gave  him  a  ring  that  he  was  never,  never^  to 
take  from  his  finger.  He  also  supplied  Madame  du  Chatelet 
with  an  abundance  of  amber  articles,  addressed  to  her  a  long 
poem,  wrote  her  many  letters,  and  claimed  a  place  in  the 
poet's  heart  next  to  hers. 

He  made  known  to  Voltaire  some  of  his  royal  dreams  of 
good  for  Prussia  :  "  Every  chief  of  society,"  he  wrote,  a  few 
months  before  his  accession,  "  ought,  it  seems  to  me,  to  think 
seriously  of  rendering  his  people  contented,  if  he  cannot  make 
them  rich ;  for  contentment  can  very  well  subsist  without 
being  sustained  by  wealth."  To  this  end,  he  thought,  kings 
should  provide  agreeable  and  cheering  entertainments  for  their 
people ;  enjoying  which,  they  could  for  a  short  time  forget  the 
unhappinesses  of  their  lot.  He  told  Voltaire  that  if  the  affairs 
of  the  world  were  really  governed  by  an  all-wise  Providence, 
as  people  imagined,  the  kings  of  Europe  would  not  be  the 
extremely  dull  men  many  of  them  were.  "  The  Newtons, 
the  Wolfs,  the  Lockes,  the  Voltaires,  would  be  the  masters  of 
this  world."  He  described  the  tower  he  had  built  at  his  cha- 
teau, in  imitation  of  Voltaire's  hall  at  Cirey :  the  first  story 
a  grotto;  the  second  a  room  for  philosophical  apparatus;  the 
third  a  printing-office ;  the  roof  an  observatory.  A  colon- 
nade connected  this  structure  with  the  wing  of  the  castle  in 
which  his  library  was  placed ;  and,  thus  bountifully  provided, 
he  passed  his  days  in  study,  experiment,  music,  and  compo- 
sition ;  punctual  at  the  daily  parade  of  his  regiment,  not  other- 
wise taking  part  in  public  business. 

He  was,  as  heirs-apparent  generally  were,  the  darling  of  his 
country ;  his  portrait  in  every  house,  his  name  a  household 
word.     The  few  old   heads  who  supposed   they  had   Europe 


422  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

in  charge,  at  that  period  of  personal  government,  regarded 
this  young  prince  with  some  attention  and  little  respect.  His 
air-pumps,  his  tower,  his  verses,  his  flute,  his  raving  enthu- 
siasm for  a  French  author,  even  his  aversion  to  debauchery, 
all  conspired  to  give  them  the  impression  that  he  and  Prussia 
would  be  an  easy  prey.  Plis  regiment,  however,  was  a  model 
to  the  whole  army ;  even  his  martinet  of  a  father  commended 
it. 

In  February,  1740,  the  king  was  supposed  to  be  dying,  and 
the  Prince  Royal  was  of  necessity  near  his  bedside.  Frederic- 
William  was  only  fifty-two  years  of  age,  and  he  had  inherited 
a  constitution  that  should  have  lasted  eighty-five.  Wine,  to- 
bacco, arbitrary  power,  and  the  infuriate  temper  resulting  from 
their  inordinate  use  had  burned  him  out  at  this  early  period, 
and  he  was  one  mass  of  incurable  disease.  It  is  an  evidence 
of  the  essential  soundness  of  the  prince's  character,  as  well  as 
of  his  discernment,  that  in  all  his  correspondence  and  conver- 
sation he  was  loyal  to  this  dull,  defective  parent,  whom  a 
physical  cause  maddened  and  destroyed.  He  gave  Voltaire  a 
glowing  narrative  of  the  great  things  his  father  had  done  in 
peopling  a  province  devastated  by  the  plague,  and  he  never 
dropped  an  allusion  to  the  terrible  scenes  in  the  palace  and  the 
prison  which  had  embittered  his  own  early  years,  and  the 
whole  life  of  his  sister  of  Baireuth. 

The  king  lingered  nearly  half  a  year,  during  which  his  son 
was  severed  from  all  that  had  made  life  interesting  to  him, 
and  he  was  prevented  by  etiquette  from  engaging  in  new  em- 
ployments. He  could  merely  wait,  and  stay  at  home,  and 
look  serious.  In  such  circumstances,  the  only  vent  to  his  pent- 
up  vivacity  was  in  composing  French  verses ;  and  this  was  his 
usual  resource  all  his  life,  even  in  the  crisis  of  a  campaign,  or 
while  he  was  waiting  for  the  development  of  a  manceuvre. 
•'  As  I  cannot  drink,"  he  wrote  once  from  the  field  to  his 
sister  Amelia,  "nothing  relieves  me  but  writing  verses,  and 
while  the  distraction  lasts  I  do  not  feel  my  griefs."  So,  now, 
at  Berlin,  waiting  till  his  father's  death  should  call  him 
to  new  duties,  he  relieved  his  mind  by  writing  long  letters 
to  Voltaire,  in  nimgled  verse  and  prose.  Thus,  February  26, 
1740 :  — 

"  My  dear  Voltaire,   I  can   reply  only  in  two  words  to  the 


FREDEKIC  BECOxMES   KING  OF  PRUSSIA.  423 

letter,  the  most  spirituelle  in  the  world,  which  you  wrote  to 
me.  The  situation  in  which  I  find  myself  holds  the  mind  so 
strongly  that  I  almost  lose  the  faculty  of  thinking. 

"  Oui,  j'apprends,  en  dcvenant  maitre, 
Le  f'ragilitc  de  mou  etre  ; 
Recevant  les  grandeurs,  j'en  vois  la  vanite'."  ^ 

There  were  twenty-nine  lines  of  this  poem,  in  some  of 
which  he  came  as  near  poetry  as  he  ever  did  in  his  life.  He 
said,  in  plain  prose,  that,  in  whatever  situation  destiny  might 
place  him,  Voltaire  should  see  no  other  change  in  him  than 
something  more  efficacious  added  to  the  esteem  and  friend- 
ship which  he  felt  for  him,  and  always  should  feel.  "  I 
tliink,"  he  added,  "  a  thousand  times  of  the  place  in  '  La 
Henriade  '  where  the  courtiers  of  Valois  are  spoken  of.  '•His 
courtiers  in  tears  about  him  ranged.''  " 

Many  long  letters  in  this  manner  followed,  the  prince  often 
deploring  his  coming  elevation,  as  well  he  might,  and  declaring 
that  nothing  consoled  him  but  "  the  thought  of  serving  his 
fellow-citizens  [coticitot/ens'],  and  being  useful  to  his  country." 
He  hoped,  too,  to  possess  Voltaire.  "  Can  I  hope  to  see  you, 
or  do  you  wish  cruelly  to  deprive  me  of  that  satisfaction? 
....  If  I  change  my  condition,  you  will  be  informed  of  it 
among  the  first.    Pity  me,  for  I  assure  you  I  am  to  be  pitied." 

Frederic- William  died  May  31, 1740.  For  a  week  the  young 
king  was  immersed  in  business  that  could  not  be  deferred.  A 
monarch  was  to  be  buried ;  Prussia  was  to  be  delivered  from 
the  ridicule  of  his  four  thousand  rickety  giants  ;  and  tan- 
gled skeins  of  negotiation  were  to  be  unraveled.  At  the  end 
of  his  first  week  of  royalty  he  found  time  to  write  to  Vol- 
taire a  shurt  letter,  which  showed  how  little  even  an  absolute 
monarch  is  master  of  his  time  and  destiny.  Frederic  had 
thought  to  be  king  of  Prussia,  but  was  already  discovering  that 
Prussia  was  going  to  be  king  of  Frederic. 

"  My  dear  friend  [lie  wrote  June  6,  1740],  my  destiny  is  changed, 
and  T  have  witnessed  the  lust  moments  of  a  kinij,  his  death-strusfle, 
and  his  death.  In  coming  to  royalty,  I  certainly  had  no  need  of  this 
lesson  to  be  disgusted  with  the  vanity  of  human  grandeurs.  I  had 
projected  a  little  work  of  a  metaphysical  nature  ;  it  is  changed  into 

1  Yes,  1   appreluMid  on   becoming  master  the  frailty  of  my  being;   receiving 
grandeurs,  I  see  the  vanity  of  ilium. 


424  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

a  work  of  politics.  I  thought  to  joust  with  the  amiable  Voltaire,  and 
am  obliged  to  fence  with  the  old  mitred  Macliiavelli.^  In  a  word,  my 
dear  Voltaire,  we  are  not  masters  of  our  destiny.  The  tornado  of 
events  draws  us  along,  and  we  have  to  let  ourselves  be  drawn.  See 
in  me,  T  pray  you,  only  a  zealous  citizen,  a  somewhat  skeptical  philos- 
opher, but  a  truly  faithful  friend.  For  God's  sake,  write  to  me  only 
as  man  to  man,  and  despise  with  me  titles,  names,  and  all  external 
show.  I  have  scarcely  yet  had  time  to  recognize  myself ;  my  occu{)a- 
tions  are  infinite,  and  still  I  give  myself  more  of  them  ;  but,  despite 
all  this  labor,  there  always  remains  to  me  time  to  admire  your  works, 
and  draw  from  them  instruction  and  recreation.  Assure  the  mar- 
chioness of  my  esteem.  I  admire  her  as  much  as  her  vast  informa- 
tion and  rare  capacity  merit.  Adieu,  my  dear  Voltaire.  If  I  live,  I 
shall  see  you,  and  even  this  very  year.  Love  me  always,  and  be 
always  sincere  with  your  friend." 

Three  letters  the  young  king  wrote  to  Voltaire  in  the  first 
month  of  his  reign,  in  verse  and  prose,  although,  as  he  said, 
he  had  to  work  with  both  hands,  —  with  one  at  army  busi- 
ness, with  the  other  at  civil  affairs  and  the  fine  arts ;  having 
twenty  occupations  at  once,  and  finding  every  day  twenty- 
four  hours  too  short.  Voltaire  was  not  backward  in  respond- 
ing. 

"  Sire,"  he  wrote  in  his  first  letter  to  the  king,  "  if  your 
destiny  has  changed,  your  noble  soul  has  not.  I  was  a  little 
inclined  to  misanthropy,  and  the  injustice  of  men  afflicted  me 
too  much.  At  present  I  abandon  myself,  with  all  the  world, 
to  joy."     Then  he  told  the  king  what  delight  his  accession 

had  given  in  France.     "  The  French  are  all  Prussians 

The  minister  who  governs  the  country  where  I  am  (Count  de 
Daun,  of  Brussels)  said  to  me,  '  We  shall  see  if  he  will  dis- 
band all  at  once  the  useless  giants  who  have  caused  so  much 
outcry.'  My  reply  was,  '  He  will  do  nothing  precipitately  ; 
he  will  not  betray  any  marked  design  to  condemn  the  errors 
which  his  predecessor  may  have  made ;  he  will  content  him- 
self with  repairing  them  gradually.  Deign,  then,  to  avow, 
great  king,  that  I  have  divined  well.  Your  majesty  orders 
me,  when  writing  to  you,  to  think  less  of  the  monarch  than 
of  the  7nan.  It  is  an  order  much  in  accord  with  my  own 
heart.     I  do  not  know  how  to  demean  myself  with  a  king  ; 

1  Cardinal  de  Fleury. 


FKEDERIC  BECOMES  KING  OF  PRUSSIA.  425 

but  I  am  quite  at  my  ease  with  a  true  man,  —  one  who  has  in 
his  heart  and  his  head  the  love  of  the  human  race.  There  is 
one  thing  which  I  should  never  dare  ask  the  king,  but  which 
I  should  dare  take  the  liberty  of  asking  the  man.  It  is,  if 
the  late  king,  before  his  death,  came  to  know  and  love  all  the 
merit  of  my  adorable  prince." 

He  banters  the  king  upon  the  question  whether  he  would 
submit  to  the  ceremony  of  coronation  and  anointing;  asks  him 
for  the  routine  of  his  day ;  warns  him  to  put  a  festive  supper 
between  the  day's  work  and  sleep ;  declares  that  he  is  enrap- 
tured, at  the  thought  of  seeing  him  so  soon  ;  and  protests  that 
the  sight  of  him  will  be  a  beatific  vision.  "  I  am  not  the  only 
one  who  sighs  for  that  happiness.  The  Queen  of  Sheba  would 
like  to  take  measures  for  seeing  Solomon  in  his  glory." 

Solomon  wrote  a  long  reply,  touching  upon  many  points, 
but  did  not  offer  the  least  encouragement  to  the  project  of  the 
Queen  of  Sheba.  It  was  not  his  iptention  to  invite  a  Queen 
of  Sheba,  from  whom  he  hoped  to  lure  an  illustrious  vassal. 
He  informed  Voltaire  that  his  father  had  died  in  perfect 
friendship  with  him. 

"  Here,  then,  is  the  Berhn  Gazette,  such  as  you  ask  it  of 
me  :  I  reached  Potsdam  Friday  evening,  and  found  the  kino- 
in  so  sad  a  condition  that  I  augured  at  once  that  his  end  was 
near.  He  showed  me  a  thousand  marks  of  his  regard ;  he 
talked  to  me  more  than  a  full  hour  upon  public  business,  both 
home  and  foreign,  with  all  the  justness  and  good  sense  imagi- 
nable. Saturday,  Sunday,  and  Monday  he  spoke  in  the  same 
way,  appearing  very  tranquil,  very  resigned,  and  bearing  his 
pains  with  much  firmness.  He  resigned  the  regency  into  my 
hands  Tuesday  morning  at  five  o'clock  ;  took  leave  tenderly  of 
my  brothers,  of  all  the  officers  of  mark,  and  of  me." 

Frederic  continued  at  much  length  to  answer  Voltaire's 
questions.  One  piece  of  intelligence  must  have  struck  with 
surprise  a  man  who  was  reading  the  proofs  of  Frederic's 
"  Anti-Machiavelli :  "  "I  began  by  augmenting  the  forces  of 
the  state  by  sixteen  battalions,  five  companies  of  hussars,  and 
one  of  body  guards."  But  then  he  immediately  added  that 
he  had  founded  a  new  Academy,  had  made  the  acquisition  of 
Maupertuis,  Wolf,  and  Algarotti,  had  invited  to  his  service 
Euler,  S'Gravesend,  and  Vaucanson,  had  established  a  new  col- 


426  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

lege  for  commerce  and  manufactures,  had  engaged  painters 
and  sculptors,  and  was  not  going  to  be  either  crowned  or 
anointed.  He  spoke  of  those  ceremonies  as  "frivolous  and 
useless,  which  ignorance  and  superstition  had  established." 
He  was  working,  too,  with  wonderful  assiduity  :  up  at  four ; 
medical  treatment  till  eight;  at  his  desk  till  ten;  parade  till 
noon  ;  at  desk  again  till  five ;  in  the  evening,  music,  supper, 
and  society. 

Voltaire  was  moved,  amazed,  and  puzzled.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  it  ?  "  he  asked  his  old  friend  Cideville.  "  Is  not  your 
heart  moved  ?  Are  we  not  happy  to  be  born  in  an  age  which 
has  produced  a  man  so  singular  ?  For  all  that,  I  remain  in 
Brussels,  and  the  best  king  in  the  world,  with  all  his  merits 
and  favors,  shall  not  take  me  away  a  moment  from  Emilie. 
Kings,  even  this  one,  must  ever  yield  the  precedence  to 
friends." 

Emilie,  indeed,  had  a  tight  clutch  upon  him.  Her  obliging 
husband  had  now  gone  to  the  army,  and  never  lived  long  un- 
der the  same  roof  with  her  again.  There  was  a  period  of  five 
years,  from  1740  to  1745,  during  which  they  scarcely  met, 
though  they  were  always  on  terms  of  friendship,  and  cordially 
cooperated  for  objects  of  common  concern.  Voltaire  was  hus- 
band, companion,  lawyer,  and  illustrious  friend  to  her,  all  in 
one  ;  and  she  held  him  fast  by  making  him  believe  that  his 
presence  was  infinitely  necessary  to  her.  He  had,  moreover, 
vowed  eternal  fidelity,  and  he  was  a  man  to  be  faithful  to  such 
a  vow.  Planting  herself  upon  this  vow,  as  some  women  do 
upon  their  marriage  certificate,  she  kept  him  in  pitiful  bond- 
age through  his  sympathies,  and  of  course  dared  not  trust  him 
out  of  her  sight.  The  vigilant  instinct  with  which  women 
falsely  allied  to  men  are  apt  to  be  endowed  causes  them  to 
scent  danger  from  afar,  and  thus  Madame  du  Chatelet,  from 
the  first,  dreaded  in  the  Prince  Royal  of  Prussia  a  rival  that 
could  rob  her  of  her  poet.  For  the  next  ten  years  it  was  in- 
deed always  a  question  which  should  possess  him;  and  be- 
tween the  two  contestants  Voltaire  seemed  sometimes  in  dan- 
ger of  being  torn  to  pieces. 

The  struggle  began  in  the  first  month  of  Frederic's  reign. 
The  refutation  of  Machiavelli  was  in  the  hands  of  a  printer  in 
Holland  at  the  moment  of  Frederic's  accession  to  the  throne; 


FREDERIC  BECOMES  KING  OF  PRUSSIA.  427 

and  Voltaire,  the  editor  of  the  work,  so  informed  the  king. 
But  Prussia  was  now  lord  of  Frederic.  Surveying  his  ami- 
able treatise  from  the  height  of  a  throne,  he  perceived  several 
things  in  it  that  were  proper  enough  for  a  prince  to  write,  but 
not  politic  for  a  king  to  publish.  "  For  God's  sake,"  he  wrote 
to  Voltaire,  "  buy  up  the  whole  edition  of  the  '  Anti-Machia- 
velli' !  "  ^  Here  was  a  coil.  The  publisher  lived  at  the  Hague 
a  hundred  miles  away,  and  he  was  a  publisher  who  knew  how 
much  the  commercial  value  of  the  work  confided  to  him  by 
Voltaire  had  increased  by  its  author's  accession  to  a  throne. 
It  was  evidently  necessary  for  the  editor  to  go  to  the  Hague. 
He  went.  Experienced  men  will  know  what  he  meant  when 
he  told  the  king  that  he  "  had  had  much  trouble  in  getting 
leave  of  abseuQe." 

Rare  scenes  occurred  at  the  Hague  between  editor  and 
publisher,  which  could  have  been  amplified  into  an  amusing 
farce.  Voltaire  had  sent  a  man  in  advance,  post-haste,  to  try 
and  get  possession,  on  some  plausible  pretext,  of  a  few  pages 
of  the  manuscript  not  yet  in  type,  so  that  he  could  enter  upon 
the  negotiation  at  an  advantage.  Not  a  page  could  be  be- 
guiled from  the  astute  possessor  of  the  prize.  Upon  hearing 
this  report,  Voltaii'e  himself  entered  upon  the  scene. 

"  I  sent  for  the  rascal ;  I  sounded  him  ;  I  presented  the  thing  in 
every  light.  He  gave  me  to  understand  that,  being  in  possession  of 
the  manuscript,  he  would  not  for  any  consideration  whatever  give  it 
up  ;  and  that,  having  begun  to  print,  he  should  finish.  When  I  saw 
that  I  had  dealings  with  a  Dutchman  who  abused  the  liberty  of  his 
country,  and  with  a  publisher  who  pushed  to  excess  his  right  of  per- 
secuting authors,  not  being  able  here  to  confide  my  secret  to  any  one, 
nor  to  implore  the  aid  of  authority,  I  remembered  that  your  majesty 
says,  in  one  of  the  chapters  of  the  '  Anti-Machiavelli,'  that  in  nego- 
tiation it  is  allowable  to  use  a  little  honest  finesse.  I  said  then  to 
Jean  Van  Duren  that  I  only  came  to  correct  some  pages  of  the  manu- 
script. '  Very  willingly,  sir,'  said  he.  '  If  you  will  come  to  my  house, 
I  will  confide  it  to  you  generously,  leaf  by  leaf  ;  you  shall  correct 
whatever  you  please,  shut  up  in  my  room,  in  the  presence  of  my  fam- 
ily and  my  workmen.'  I  accepted  his  cordial  offer ;  I  went  to  his 
house  ;  and,  in  truth,  I  corrected  some  leaves,  which  he  took  from 
me  as  I  did  them,  and  read  them  over  to  see  if  I  was  not  deceiving 
him.  Having  thus  inspired  in  him  a  little  less  distrust,  I  returned 
1  22  CEuvres  de  Frederic  le  Graud,  14. 


428  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

to-day  to  the  same  prison,  where  he  shut  me  up  as  before  ;  and  having 
obtained  six  chapters  at  once,  in  order  to  compare  them  together,  I 
scratched  them  in  such  a  way,  and  interlined  such  horrible  cock-and- 
bull  nonsense,  that  they  no  longer  had  the  least  resemblance  to  a 
work.  That  is  what  may  be  called  blowing  up  your  ship  in  order 
not  to  be  taken  by  the  enemy.  I  was  in  despair  at  sacrificing  so  fine 
a  work ;  but  I  was  obeying  a  king  whom  I  idolize,  and  I  assure  you 
I  did  it  with  hearty  good-will.  Who  is  now  astonished  and  con- 
founded ?  My  scoundrel.  To-morrow  I  hope  to  make  with  him  a 
fair  bargain,  and  to  force  him  to  give  up  all  to  me,  both  print  and 
manuscript." 

But  Jean  was  obdurate.  Voltaire  sought  legal  advice,  and 
found  that,  by  Dutch  law,  a  bargain  was  a  bargain.  He  tried 
all  arts  and  devices,  and  still  Van  Duren's  press  continued  to 
strike  off  the  printed  sheets.  Then  he  advised  the  king  to 
kill  Van  Duren's  edition  by  issuing  an  authorized  version, 
which  he,  Voltaire,  would  superintend,  and  hurry  into  print. 
The  king  replied,  "  Erase,  alter,  correct,  and  replace  all  the 
passages  you  like.  I  submit  the  whole  to  your  discernment." 
Voltaire  recast  the  work  in  a  few  days,  and,  in  a  few  weeks, 
had  editions  for  London,  Paris,  and  Holland  ready  for  distri- 
bution ;  and  thus,  although  he  did  not  prevent  Van  Duren 
from  issuing  his  mutilated  version,  he  prevented  him  from 
gaining  much  by  it.  In  the  late  Berlin  edition  of  Frederic's 
works,  two  versions  of  the  "  Anti-Machiavelli "  are  given,  — 
the  one  edited  by  Voltaire,  and  the  one  as  originally  written 
in  the  king's  own  hand.  Voltaire  used  his  privilege  of  editor 
with  great  freedom,  and  made  many  g;illant  cuts  in  the  man- 
uscript, erasing  in  all  thirty-two  printed  pages.  When  the 
king  saw  his  diminished  bantling,  his  paternal  pride  was  so 
aggrieved  that  he  resolved  to  disavow  both  editions  and  spend 
the  leisure  of  the  following  winter  in  preparing  a  third,  which 
should  be  printed  at  Berlin  under  his  own  eyes,  and,  perhaps, 
publislied  with  his  name  in  the  title-page.  Before  the  next 
winter  had  reached  its  second  month,  the  King  of  Prussia,  as  it 
seemed  to  his  assiduous  editor,  was  refuting,  sword  in  hand,  not 
Machiavelli's  "  Prince,"  but  the  prince's  "  Anti-Machiavelli." 
For  the  present,  the  king  was  sorry  he  had  written  the  book, 
because  "  it  had  robbed  the  world  of  fifteen  days  of  Voltaire's 
time."  Late  in  August,  1740,  Voltaire  returned  to  Brussels 
and  resumed  his  usual  routine  of  labor  and  recreation. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

FIRST   MEETING   OF   VOLTAIRE   AND  FREDERIC. 

KiXG  and  author,  after  four  years  of  correspondence,  were 
now  to  put  their  enthusiastic  friendship  to  the  test  of  personal 
converse.  The  king,  in  making  the  tour  of  his  states  to  re- 
ceive homage,  was  to  approach,  in  September,  1740,  the  bor- 
ders of  Flanders.  He  was  on  fire  to  meet  Voltaire.  Rather 
than  not  see  him,  he  would  receive  Madame  du  Chatelet  also, 
tliougb  with  great  reluctance ;  and  he  wrote  to  her,  at  Vol- 
taire's request,  to  say  that  he  hoped  soon  to  meet  them  both. 
He  evidently  had  for  her  the  repugnance  of  a  rival.  "  To 
speak  frankly  to  you,"  he  wrote  to  Voltaire,  "it  is  you,  it  is 
my  friend,  whom  I  desire  to  see  ;  and  the  divine  Emilie,  with 
all  her  divinity,  is  only  the  accessory  of  the  Newtonized 
Apollo."  Writing  the  next  day,  the  king  added,  "  If  Emilie 
viust  accompany  Apollo,  I  consent ;  but  if  I  can  see  you  alone, 
I  should  prefer  it.  I  should  be  too  much  dazzled  ;  I  could  not 
bear  so  much  brilliancy  at  once.  I  should  need  the  veil  of 
Moses  to  temper  the  blended  rays  of  your  divinities." 

But,  king  as  he  was,  he  was  obliged  promptly  to  change 
his  note  ;  and  he  announced  his  intention,  a  few  days  after,  of 
visiting  them,  incognito,  at  Brussels.  They  were  to  meet 
him  at  Anvers,  a  day's  ride  from  their  abode,  and  they  would 
all  go  to  Brussels  together,  —  Voltaire  and  madame,  the  king 
and  his  three  companions,  Kaiserling,  Maupertuis,  and  Alga- 
rotti.  Nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  to  Madame  du  Chate- 
let ;  for  Algarotti  and  Maupertuis  were  among  her  most  cher- 
ished friends.  Kaiserling  had  been  her  guest,  and  she  was 
not  insensible  to  the  social  Sclat  of  entertaining  a  king.  She 
had  had  a  brief  estrangement  from  the  difficult  Maupertuis, 
but  Voltaire  had  healed  the  breach,  telling  the  irritable  phi- 
losopher that  "  a  man  is  always  in  the  right  when  he  makes 
the  first  advance  to  an  offended  woman."     Maupertuis,  as  it 


430  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

seems,  acted  upon  this  maxim,  and  all  was  well  between  them. 
A  most  congenial  party  would  have  surrounded  the  king  at 
her  house  in  Brussels,  where  madarae  had  extemporized  am- 
ple preparation. 

But  there  was,  after  all,  a  doubt  whether  the  king  could 
come.  He  was  afflicted  with  the  four-days  ague,  for  which  he 
was  under  treatment ;  and  the  next  day,  as  he  wrote  to  Vol- 
taire, would  decide  whether  that  treatment  had  been  effectual. 
If  the  next  Hay  passed  without  a  fit  of  the  ague,  then  he  would 
go  on  from  Wessel  to  An  vers,  and  meet  them,  and  enjoy  the 
most  exquisite  experience  of  his  life. 

But  the  ague  returned  the  next  day,  and  the  king  could 
only  write  a  letter,  not  undertake  a  long  journey.  Could 
Voltaire  alone  meet  him  at  Cleves,  eighty  miles  from  Brus- 
sels ?  "  Let  us  cheat  the  fever,  my  dear  Voltaire,  and  let  me 
at  least  have  the  pleasure  of  embracing  you.  Make  my  ex- 
cuses to  the  marchioness  for  my  not  having  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  her  at  Brussels.  All  who  come  near  me  know  what 
my  intention  was,  and  that  it  was  the  fever  only  that  could 
have  made  me  change  it.  On  Sunday  I  shall  be  at  a  little 
place  near  Cleves,  where  I  shall  be  able  to  possess  you  truly 
at  my  ease.  If  the  sight  of  you  does  not  cure  me,  I  shall  con- 
fess myself  at  once." 

No  French  lady  of  that  period  could  believe  that  this  was 
not  contrived ;  and  we  may  also  be  perfectly  sure  that  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  did  not  allow  royal  letters  to  come  into  her 
house  which  she  did  not  take  the  precaution  of  reading.  We 
ought  not  to  be  surprised,  therefore,  to  read  in  one  of  her 
letters  of  December,  1740,  "  I  defy  the  King  of  Prussia  to 
hate  me  more  than  I  have  hated  him  these  two  months  past!  " 
Nevertheless,  Voltaire  managed  to  break  away,  and  take  the 
road  to  Cleves  in  time  for  the  rendezvous,  carrying  with  him 
a  letter  from  madame  to  the  king,  in  which  she  declared  she 
did  not  know  which  afflicted  her  most,  — to  know  that  he  was 
sick,  or  to  miss  the  expected  opportunity  of  paying  him  lier 
court.  She  also  hoped  his  majesty  would  not  keep  long  the 
person  with  whom  she  expected  to  pass  her  life,  and  whom 
she  had  "  only  lent  him  for  a  very  few  days." 

On  a  chilly  Sunday  evening,  September  11,  1740,  Voltaire 
reached  the  castle  of  Moyland,  six  miles  from  Cleves,  where 


FIRST  MEETING    OF   VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERIC.         431 

the  King  of  Prussia  lodged.  At  the  gate  of  the  court  he 
found  one  soldier  on  guard,  and  descried  within  the  court 
Privy  Councilor  Rambouet  walking  up  and  down,  blowing 
his  fincrers.  The  visitor  was  conducted  to  the  rooms  of  the 
chateau  occupied  by  the  king,  which  were  unfurnished  ;  and 
he  perceived  by  the  light  of  one  candle,  in  a  small  side-room, 
a  cot  two  feet  and  a  half  wide,  upon  which  there  was  a  little 
man  all  muffled  up  in  a  dressing-gown  of  thick  blue  cloth, 
and  shaking  with  a  violent  fit  of  the  ague.  Voltaire,  after 
making  his  bow,  went  to  the  bedside  of  the  shivering  mon- 
arch, and,  as  he  tells  us,  "  began  their  acquaintance  by  feeling 
his  pulse,  as  if  he  had  been  the  king's  first  physician."  The 
fit  passed,  and  the  king  was  well  enough  to  dress  and  join 
his  friends  at  supper.  With  Voltaire,  Maupertuis,  Algarotti, 
Kaiserling,  and  one  or  two  official  persons  at  the  table,  Fred- 
eric forgot  his  ague,  and  led  the  conversation  to  deep  and 
high  matters.  "  We  discussed  to  the  bottom,"  Voltaire  re- 
corded long  after,  "  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  free-will,  and 
the  men-Avomen  of  Plato."  Doubtless  it  was  a  supper  to  be 
remembered. 

The  three  days'  visit  was  all  too  short  for  the  discussion  of 
the  king's  fondly  cherished  pi'ojects  for  the  elevation  of  his 
country  and  the  entertainment  of  its  capital.  Frederic  availed 
himself  of  the  pen  of  his  guest  in  drawing  up  a  manifesto,  be- 
sides advising  with  him  in  affairs  dramatic,  philosophical,  ar- 
tistic, and  literar}^  The  king  anticipated  some  years  of  peace, 
and  with  good  reason.  His  whole  soul  seemed  set  upon  em- 
ploying those  years  in  making  Berlin  a  German  Paris,  with 
academy,  library,  theatre,  opera,  galleries,  society,  all  in  the 
ti'ue  Parisian  manner.  What  man  so  comj)etent  to  aid  him  as 
Voltaire,  who  had  lived  but  to  promote  and  strengthen  that 
which  made  Paris  illustrious  in  Frederic's  eyes  ?  Three  days 
of  familiar,  earnest,  delicious  conversation,  three  suppers  of  the 
gods,  and  the  friends  separated ;  but  soon,  as  they  hoped,  to 
meet  again,  in  circumstances  more  favorable,  —  perhaps  at  that 
chateau  of  Remusburg,  where  Frederic  had  lived  as  Prince 
Royal,  and  where  he  had  built  a  tower  and  had  gathered  all 
the  means  of  self-improvement.  Voltaire,  on  leaving  the  cha- 
teau of  Moyland,  took  the  road  to  Holland,  to  complete  the 
publication  of  the  "  Anti-Machievelli  "  and  to  superintend  its 


432  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

distribution.  Thus,  the  King  of  Prussia  did  not  send  back  in 
a  few  days  the  poet  whom  Madame  du  Chatelet  had  been  so 
obb'ging  as  to  lend  him. 

The  visit  did  not,  in  the  least,  disenchant  either  the  king 
or  Voltaire.  They  were,  if  possible,  more  in  love  with  each 
other  than  before. 

"  I  have  seen  that  Voltaire  whom  I  was  so  curious  to  know," 
wrote  the  king,  September  24th,  to  his  familiar  Jordan;  "but  I 
saw  him  with  my  ague  upon  me,  and  my  mind  as  unstrung  as 

my  body  was  weak He  has  the  eloquence  of  Cicero, 

the  sweetness  of  Pliny,  and  the  wisdom  of  Agrippa ;  in  a  word, 
Ke  unites  in  himself  the  virtues  and  talents  of  the  three  greatest 
men  of  antiquity.  His  mind  works  without  ceasing ;  every  drop 
of  ink  is  a  gleam  of  wit  dai'ted  from  his  pen.  He  declaimed 
"  Mahomet  1."  to  us,  an  admirable  tragedy  of  his  own,  and  he 
transported  us  out  of  ourselves ;  I  could  only  admire  and  be 
silent.  The  Du  Chatelet  is  fortunate  indeed  to  have  him  ;  for 
out  of  the  good  things  he  utters  at  random  a  person  who  had 
no  gift  but  memory  might  make  a  brilliant  book." 

Voltaire  was  not  less  satisfied  with  the  king.  He  described 
him  soon  after,  in  letters  to  Cideville,  Maupertuis,  H^nault, 
andD'Argens,  in  glowing  terms. 

[To  Cideville.]  "  I  saw  one  of  the  most  amiable  men  in  the  world,  — 
a  man  who  would  be  the  charm  of  society,  sought  everywhere,  if  he  had 
not  been  a  king ;  a  philosopher  without  austerity,  all  goodness,  com- 
pliance, and  accomplishments;  forgetting  that  he  is  a  king  the  mo- 
ment he  is  among  his  friends,  and  so  completely  forgetting  it  that  he 
made  me  forget  it  also,  so  that  I  had  to  make  an  effort  of  memory  to 
recollect  that  1  saw  seated  upon  the  foot  of  my  bed  a  sovereign  who 
had  an  army  of  a  hundred  thousand  men." 

[To  D'Argens.]  "  Why  do  you  go  to  Switzerland ?  "What!  there 
is  a  King  of  Prussia  in  the  world  !  "What!  the  most  amiable  of  men 
is  upon  a  throne  !  The  Algarottis,  the  Wolfs,  the  Maupertuis,  all  the 
arts,  are  running  thither  in  a  throng,  and  you  would  go  to  Switzer- 
land 1  No,  no  ;  take  my  advice  :  establish  yourself  at  Berlin.  Reason, 
wit,  virtue,  are  to  be  recreated  there.    It  is  the  country  for  every  man 

who  thinks To-day  [at  the  Hague],  I  have  seen  a  gentleman 

of  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year,  who  said  to  me,  '  I  shall  have  no 
other  country  than  Berlin.  I  renounce  my  own.'  I  know,  too,  a 
very  great  lord  of  the  empire  who  desires  to  leave  his  sacred  majesty 
for  the  Humanity  of  the  King  of  Prussia.     Go,  my  dear  friend,  into 


1 


FIRST   MEETING   OF   VOLTAIRE   AND   FREDERIC.        433 

that  temple  which  he  is  elevating  to  the  arts.     Alas,  that  I   cannot 
follow  you  thither !     A   sacred   duty  draws   me  elsewhere." 

[To  President  Henault.]  "  It  is  a  miracle  of  nature  that  the  son  of 
a  crowned  ogre,  reared  with  beasts,  should  have  divined  in  his  des- 
erts that  refinement  and  all  those  natural  graces  which,  even  at  Paris, 
are  the  possession  of  a  very  small  number  of  persons,  who  neverthe- 
less  make   the  reputation   of  Paris.     His  ruling  passions  are  to  be 

just  and  to  please.     He  is  formed  for  society  as  for  the  throne 

As  much  as  I  detest  the  low  and  infamous  superstition  which  dis-" 
graces  so  many  states,  so  much  do  I  adore  true  virtue ;  and  I  believe 
I  have  found  it  in  this  prince  and  in  his  book.  If  he  should  ever  be- 
tray such  grand  professions,  if  he  is  not  worthy  of  himself,  if  he  is 
not  always  a  Marcus  Aurelius,  a  Trojan,  and  a  Titus,  I  shall  lament 
it,  and  love  him  no  more." 

[To  Maupertuis.]  "  When  we  set  out  from  Cleves,  and  you  took  to 
the  right  and  I  to  the  left,  I  believed  we  had  come  to  the  last  judg- 
ment, and  the  good  Lord  was  separating  his  elect  from  the  damned. 
The  divine  Frederic  said  to  you,  '  Sit  at  my  right  hand  iu  the  para- 
dise of  Berlin  ;  and  to  me,  '  Go,  accursed  one,  into  Holland.'  I  am, 
then,  in  that  phlegmatic  hell,  far  from  the  divine  fire  that  animates  the 
Frederics,  the    Maupertuis,  the  Algarottis." 

He  was  detained  several  weeks  at  tlie  Hague,  during  which 
he  lived,  by  the  king's  invitation,  at  an  old  palace  belonging 
to  the  crown  of  Prussia,  and  inhabited  by  the  Prussian  envoy. 
He  gave  the  king  a  poetical  description  of  the  dilapidated 
condition  of  this  palace  :  its  magnificent  rooms  with  rotten 
floors  and  leaky  roofs  ;  its  garret  full  of  the  shields,  armor, 
and  weapons  of  the  king's  heroic  ancestors ;  their  rusty  sa- 
bres ranged  along  the  walls,  and  the  worm-eaten  wood  of  their 
lances  couched  upon  the  ground,  —  dust  like  the  heroes  who 
had  borne  them.  "  There  are  also  some  books,  which  the  rats 
alone  have  read  during  the  last  fifty  years,  and  whicli  are 
covered  with  the  largest  cobwebs  in  Europe,  for  fear  the  pro- 
fane should  approach  them."  In  this  musty  old  palace  he 
lived  two  months.  Madame  du  Chatelet  embraced  the  oppor- 
tunity of  his  absence  to  visit  Fontainebleau,  where  she  busied 
herself  in  preparing  the  way  for  his  safe  return  to  Paris. 
She  had  bouglit  a  very  large  and  handsome  house  at  the 
capital,  which  she  hoped  long  to  inhabit  with  her  friend,  when 
she  had  gained  her  suit  in  Brussels.  Finding  the  Cardinal 
de  Fleury  not  too  well  disposed  toward  him,  she  asked  the 

VOL.    I.  28 


434  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Kins:  of  Prussia  to  use  his  influence  with  the  cardinal  on  Vol- 
taire's  behalf. 

"  There  is  nothing  positive  against  him,"  she  wrote  to 
Frederic,  October  16,  1740;  "but  an  infinitude  of  trifling 
grievances  can  all  together  do  as  much  harm  as  real  wrongs. 
It  will  depend  upon  your  majesty  alone  to  dissipate  all  those 
clouds,  and  it  would  sufiice  if  only  M.  Camas  [Prussian  am- 
bassador] would  not  conceal  the  favor  with  which  your  maj- 
esty honors  him  and  the  interest  which  you  deign  to  take  in 
him.  I  am  very  certain  that  would  be  enough  to  secure  M. 
de  Voltaire  a  repose  which  he  has  a  right  to  enjoy,  and  of 
which  his  health  has  need."  ^ 

The  king  did  not  neglect  to  comply  with  this  request.  He 
had  already  more  than  once  conveyed  to  the  cardinal  intima- 
tions of  his  warm  regard  for  Voltaire,  and  Voltaire  himself  had 
taken  pains  to  keep  the  French  court  advised  of  the  same. 
Usually,  he  was  careless  about  the  address  and  date  of  his 
letters ;  but  now,  at  the  head  of  all  his  letters  for  Paris,  he 
was  careful  to  write,  "  At  the  Hague,  at  the  Palace  of  the 
King  of  Prussia."  Nor  did  he  fail  to  communicate  to  his  cor- 
respondents at  court  the  more  striking  proofs  of  the  king's 
favor  towards  him.  Thus,  on  the  very  day,  June  18th,  upon 
which  he  answered  the  first  letter  written  to  him  by  King 
Frederic,  he  wrote  to  the  Marquis  d'Argenson,  telling  him 
what  a  tender  and  affectionate  letter  the  young  king  had  writ- 
ten him,  and  how  the  king  had  enjoined  it  upon  him  to  write 
to  him  only  as  man  to  man.  As  soon  as  he  had  copies  of  the 
"  Anti-Machiavelli "  ready,  he  sent  one  to  Madame  du  Chsi- 
telet  for  presentation  to  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury,  leaving  the 
cardinal  to  guess  the  secret  of  its  authorship,  which  was  known 
to  Europe.  Thus  the  way  was  prepared  for  a  closer  connec- 
tion with  "  the  mitred  Machiavelli "  than  either  of  them  could 
have  anticipated. 

1  Lettrea  de  la  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  page  396.    Paris,  1878. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

VOLTAIRE  AS  AMATEUR  DIPLOMATIST. 

In  the  early  autumn  of  1740,  the  system  of  personal  gov- 
ernment, as  then  established  in  Europe,  presented  itself  in  its 
fairest  aspect.  There  was  peace  among  the  nations,  and  each 
of  the  individuals  upon  whom  its  continuance  most  depended 
had  a  personal  reason  of  the  most  powerful  nature  to  pre- 
serve it.  Frederic,  as  we  know,  was  ardent  to  carry  out  his 
project  of  engrafting  French  civilization.  George  II.,  of  Eng- 
land, was  never  so  sure  of  his  native,  hereditary  Hanover  as 
when  Europe  was  at  peace.  The  Emperor  Charles  VI.  was  a 
bankrupt,  struggling  to  restore  his  finances.  The  Cardinal 
de  Fleury,  always  devoted  to  a  pacific  policy,  always  more  a 
priest  than  a  minister,  was  then  eighty-seven  years  of  age. 

Science,  art,  literature,  the  amelioration  of  the  common  lot, 
—  all  the  dearest  interests  of  man,  that  languish  in  war  and 
revive  in  peace,  —  seemed  more  than  ever  the  objects  sought 
by  governments,  societies,  and  individuals.  Three  kings  at 
once  invited  Maupertuis  in  1740.  An  advocate  of  the  system 
by  which  the  interests  and  rights  of  two  hundred  millions  of 
human  beings  were  annexed,  bj'^  the  accident  of  birth,  to  the 
caprice  of  the  dozen  worst  educated  of  them  all  might  have 
been  pardoned  if,  on  the  15th  of  October,  1740,  he  had  pointed 
to  the  condition  of  public  affairs  as  an  evidence  that  personal 
government,  however  absurd  in  theory,  was  still  well  suited  to 
the  imperfect  development  of  man. 

A  trifling  incident  changed  all.  One  day  an  elderly  gentle- 
man in  Vienna,  called  Charles  VI.,  Emperor  of  Germany,  ate 
too  many  mushrooms  !  He  died,  and  Maria  Theresa,  his 
daughter,  reigned  in  his  stead.  A  young  lady  of  twenty-three, 
married  to  an  ordinary  man,  was  to  hold  together  an  exten- 
sive, incoherent  empire,  parts  of  which  were  hers  by  titles 
that  could  be  called  in  question.     All  the  powers  were  bound 


436  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

by  treaty  to  recognize  her  as  the  heir  to  the  whole  of  her 
father's  dominions.  But  that  father  was  gone  from  the  scene, 
—  dead  before  his  time,  —  a  victim  to  his  love  of  an  expensive 
vegetable.  A  spell  was  broken  !  The  political  system  of 
Europe  was  at  an  end.  Each  power  sat  wondering  what  the 
others  would  do,  watching  for  the  outthrust  of  an  arm  toward 
the  chestnuts  left  suddenly  without  protection.  Thirteen  years 
of  war  and  tribulation  followed,  involving  Europe  and  Amer- 
ica; causing  more  damage  than  arithmetic  can  compute,  and 
more  misery  than  language  can  utter  ;  ending  in  salutary  rec- 
tifications of  the  maps  of  both  hemispheres,  —  ending  in  the 
United  States  of  to-day  and  the  Prussia  of  to-day. 

Voltaire  was  still  inhabiting  the  King  of  Prussia's  palace  at 
the  Hague  when  those  historic  mushrooms  did  their  fatal  work. 
Besides  his  proof-reading  and  his  copy-distributing,  he  was  ne- 
gotiating, on  Frederic's  behalf,  with  a  troupe  of  Paris  actors, 
whom  the  king  desired  to  engage  permanently  for  the  royal 
theatre  at  Berlin,  —  a  troupe  complete  in  all  the  kinds  :  trag- 
edy, comedy,  opera,  and  ballet.  He  was  writing,  also,  to  his 
literary  and  philosophic  friends  in  France,  as  we  have  seen, 
urging  them  to  repair  to  Berlin,  the  new  seat  of  the  Muses, 
the  new  home  of  philosophy  and  toleration.  He  was  soon 
himself  to  visit  the  king  at  his  old  abode  at  Remusburg,  to  dis- 
cuss further  all  those  fine  schemes  for  making  Berlin  a  more 
solid  and  tolerant  Paris.  In  the  midst  of  this  joyous  and 
hopeful  activity  occurred  the  disaster  of  the  imperial  indiges- 
tion. 

"  My  dear  Voltaire,"  wrote  Frederic,  October  26, 1740,  "  an 
event  the  least  expected  hinders  me  this  time  from  opening 
my  soul  to  yours  as  usual,  and  gossiping  with  you  as  I  should 
like.  The  emperor  is  dead.  This  death  disarranges  all  my 
pacific  ideas ;  and  my  opinion  is  that,  in  the  month  of  June 
next,  we  shall  be  occupied  with  gunpowder,  soldiers,  and  earth- 
works, rather  than  with  actresses,  ballets,  and  theatres  ;  so 
that  I  find  myself  obliged  to  suspend  the  contract  we  were 
making  [with  the  comedians].  My  affair  at  Liege  is  all  fin- 
ished; but  those  of  the  present  moment  are  of  the  greatest 
consequence  for  Europe.  This  is  the  moment  of  the  total 
change  of  the  ancient  system  of  policy ;  it  is  that  detached 
rock  which  rolled  upon  the  image  of  four  metals  which  Nebu- 


VOLTAIRE   AS   AMATEUR  DIPLOMATIST.  437 

chadnezer  saw,  and  which  destroyed  them  all.  I  am  a  thou- 
sand times  obliged  to  you  for  the  printing  of  the  Alachiavelli. 
I  could  not  work  upon  it  at  present ;  I  am  overwhelmed  with 
business." 

But  Voltaire  was  to  visit  the  king,  all  the  same  ;  and  he  un- 
derstood the  political  situation  sufficiently  well  to  see  that,  at 
such  a  moment,  he  might  be  of  use  to  an  aged,  apprehensive 
French  minister.  What  did  this  young  enthusiast  of  a  king 
mean  to  do  ?  That  was  a  question  upon  which,  perhaps,  he 
could  get  some  precious  information  during  his  stay  at  Remus- 
burg.  He  wrote  to  the  cardinal,  acknowledging  the  favorable 
disposition  towards  himself  which  Madame  du  Chatelet  had 
made  known  to  him,  and  denying  that  he  had  anything  but 
respect  for  true  religion.  "  Formerly,"  he  wrote,  "the  Cai-di- 
na,l  de  Fleury  loved  me,  when  I  used  to  see  him  at  the  chateau 
of  Madame  de  Villars."  Two  days  after,  he  announced  to  the 
cardinal  his  intention  to  visit  Remusburg  and  pay  his  court  to 
"  a  monarch  who  took  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury's  way  of  think- 
ing as  his  model."  He  also  reminded  his  Eminence  that  he 
had  lately  sent  him  a  copy  of  a  certain  "  Anti-Machiavelli,"'  a 
work  in  which  his  Eminence's  own  sentiments  were  expressed, 
and  which  had  been  inspired  by  his  Eminence's  own  motive,  a 
desire  to  promote  the  happiness  of  mankind.  "  Whoever  may 
be  the  author  of  this  work,  if  your  Eminence  will  deign  to  in- 
dicate to  me  that  you  approve  it,  I  am  sure  that  the  author, 
who  is  already  full  of  esteem  for  you  personally,  will  add  his 
friendship  also,  and  cherish  still  more  the  nation  of  which  you 
make  the  felicity." 

The  aged  minister,  disturbed  already  by  unexplained  move- 
ments of  Prussian  troops,  poured  forth  two  long,  affectionate 
letters  to  Voltaire  on  the  same  day,  November  14,  1740.  His 
ancient  love,  such  as  it  was,  experienced  a  surprising  revival. 
He  became  a  father  to  Frederic's  friend,  a  wise,  indulgent 
sire,  who  knew  how  to  allow  for  the  vagaries  of  genius  and 
the  escapades  of  youth. 

"  You  did  me  wrong  [he  wrote]  if  you  thought  that  I  have  ever 
wished  you  the  least  ill ;  and  I  have  been  sorry  for  that  only  which 
you  have  done  to  yourself.  I  think  I  know  you  perfectly.  You  are 
a  good  and  honest  man.  That  first  quality  certainly  will  not  harm 
you,  and  you  are  aware  that  Cicero  gave  it  the  first  rank  in  the  char- 


438  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIEE. 

acter  of  great  orators.  But  you  have  been  young ;  and  perhaps  you 
were  young  a  little  too  long.  You  passed  your  youth  in  the  company 
which  the  thoughtless  world  regards  as  the  best,  because  it  is  com- 
posed of  great  lords.  They  applauded  you,  and  with  reason ;  but  they 
yielded  to  you  in  everything,  and  they  went  too  far.  Very  soon 
they  spoiled  you ;  and,  at  your  age,  that  was  natural.  I  trust  that 
you  feel  it  yourself ;  and  that  which  gives  me  the  most  pleasure,  in 
your  letter  of  the  2d  of  this  month,  is  the  passage  in  which  you 
speak  of  your  respect  for  religion.  It  is  a  grand  word,  and  let  me,  I 
pray  you,  give  to  what  you  say  all  the  extent  which  my  friendship 
for  you  makes  me  desire  for  it.  Among  the  great  number  of  duties 
which  an  honest  man  is  bound  to  fulfill,  can  that  one  be  excepted  which 
regards  our  sovereign  Master  and  our  Creator  ?  Even  the  pagans  do 
not  think  so.  Return,  then,  to  your  country  with  these  sentiments,  or, 
at  least,  with  a  willingness  to  yield  yourself  to  them.  You  do  your 
country  honor  by  your  talents ;  give  it  also  the  consolation  to  see 
those  talents  employed  for  the  public  good,  the  only  end  of  genuine 
and  solid  glory.  I  have  always  esteemed  you  and  loved  you :  I  can- 
not give  you  a  better  proof  of  it  than  in  speaking  to  you  with  the  free- 
dom that  I  now  do." 

Then,  with  regard  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  nothing,  he 
thought,  could  be  more  becoming  in  Voltaire  than  to  pay  his 
homage  to  so  glorious  a  prince. 

"  I  was  not  aware  [continued  the  cardinal]  that  the  precious  gift 
which  Madame  la  Marquise  du  Chatelet  made  me  of  the  '  Anti- 
Machiavelli '  came  from  you.  It  is  all  the  more  dear  to  me  as  your 
gift,  and  I  thank  you  for  it  with  all  my  heart.  As  I  have  but  few  mo- 
ments to  bestow  upon  my  pleasure,  I  have  only  been  able  to  read 
about  forty  pages  or  so,  and  I  shall  try  to  finish  it  in  what  I  call,  very 
improperly,  my  retreat ;  for  it  is,  unhappily,  too  much  disturbed  for  re- 
pose. Whoever  may  be  the  author  of  this  work,  if  he  is  not  a  prince, 
he  deserves  to  be  one ;  and  the  little  which  I  have  read  of  it  is  so  wise, 
so  reasonable,  and  expresses  principles  so  admirable,  that  the  author 
would  be  worthy  to  command  other  men,  provided  he  has  the  courage 
to  put  them  in  practice.  If  he  was  born  a  prince,  he  contracts  a  very 
solemn  engagement  with  the  public ;  and  the  Emperor  Antoninus 
would  not  have  acquired  the  immortal  glory  which  he  retains,  age 
after  age,  if  he  had  not  sustained  by  the  justice  of  his  government  the 
exquisite  morality  of  which  he  had  given  such  instructive  lessons  to 

all  sovereigns I  should  be  infinitely  touched  if  his  Prussian 

majesty  could  find  in  my  conduct  some  conformity  with  his  principles ; 
but  I  can  at  least  assure  you  that  1  regard  his  as  the  outline  of  the 


VOLTAIRE  AS  AJIATEUR  DIPLOMATIST.  439 

most  perfect  and  most  glorious  government.  Corruption  is  so  gen- 
eral and  good  faith  so  indecently  banished  from  all  liearts  in  this  un- 
happy age  that,  if  we  do  not  hold  very  firmly  to  the  superior  mo- 
tives which  oblige  us  not  to  depart  from  right  principles,  we  shall 
sometimes  be  tempted  to  lay  them  aside  on  certain  occasions ;  but  the 
king,  my  master,  makes  it  plainly  evident  that  he  does  not  claim  the 
right  to  use  reprisals  of  this  kind,  and,  at  the  first  moment  of  the 
news  of  the  emperor's  death,  he  assured  the  Prince  de  Lichtenstein 
that  he  would  faithfully  keep  all  his  engagements.  I  fall  without 
thinking  of  it  into  political  reflections,  and  I  conclude  by  assuring  you 
that  I  shall  endeavor  not  to  render  myself  unworthy  of  the  good  opin- 
ion which  his  Prussian  majesty  deigns  to  have  of  me." 

The  King  of  France,  then,  meant  to  keep  the  peace,  — 
meant  to  respect  the  claims  of  Maria  Theresa.  Could  the 
author  of  the  "  Anti-Machiavelli"  do  less? 

Early  in  November,  the  season  no  longer  favorable  for  trav- 
eling, Voltaire  set  out  from  the  Hague  on  his  journey  to  Re- 
musburg,  distant  not  less  by  the  usual  road  than  three  hun- 
dred miles.  At  the  moment  of  his  departure,  who  should  ar- 
rive but  a  young  man,  Dumolard  by  name,  recommended  by 
Thieriot  for  the  service  of  the  King  of  Prussia  as  librarian. 
That  monarch  had  ceased  to  want  librarians ;  but,  neverthe- 
less, he  took  him  into  his  carriage,  and  thus'  had  a  traveling 
companion.  The  king,  moreover,  had  been  remiss  in  paying 
Thieriot's  salary  and  expenditures  as  Paris  agent  and  news- 
writer,  and  it  occurred  to  Voltaire  that  the  arrival  of  Dumo- 
lard would  furnish  an  occasion  for  him  to  jog  the  memory  of 
a  king  overwhelmed  with  business.  "  Send  me  at  once,"  he 
wrote  to  Thieriot,  "  the  amount  of  your  disbursements ;  do  not 
doubt  that  his  majesty  will  act  generously."  Thieriot,  in  fact, 
was  getting  tired  of  writing  letters  and  making  purchases, 
even  for  a  king,  without  receiving  an  occasional  remittance. 

The  usual  breakdown  of  their  carriage  occurred  soon  after 
they  had  entered  the  dominions  of  Frederic.  One  of  their 
servants,  as  Voltaire  told  the  king,  asked  help  of  some  na- 
tives, who,  not  acquainted  with  the  French  language,  supposed 
he  wanted  something  to  drink.  Another  servant  ran  off  with- 
out knowing  where.  "  Dumolard  proved  a  man  of  resources, 
as  if  he  had  not  been  a  scholar."  Voltaire,  accoutred  as  he  was 
in  velvet  breeches,  silk  stockings,  and  low  shoes,  mounted  one 


440  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

of  the  carriage  horses,  restive  and  sharp-backed,  and  thus  ap- 
proached the  walled  town  of  Herford.  "  Who  goes  there  ?  " 
cried  the  sentinel.  "  Don  Quixote,"  answered  Voltaire  ;  and 
under  that  name  he  entered  the  city. 

Two  weeks  of  laborious  travel  brought  him  to  the  ch^ 
teau  of  Remusburg,  where  he  found  a  numerous  and  gay  com- 
pany of  the  king's  friends,  including  his  sister  of  Bayreuth. 
The  quinine  which  Voltaire  had  recommended  —  a  new  rem- 
edy then  —  had  broken  the  king's  ague,  and  he  was  able  to 
meet  his  guests  in  the  evening.  To  all  appearance  nothing 
had  changed,  if  not  that  the  king  was  more  bent  on  pleasure 
than  usual ;  every  evening  a  concert,  at  which  he  played  two 
or  three  concertos  on  the  flute  ;  a  merry  supper  afterward, 
with  verses,  play,  dancing,  and  "  eating  to  burst."  Voltaire, 
who  was  always  improved  in  health  by  a  journey,  was  in 
his  brightest  mood,  and  pleased  the  king  better  than  be- 
fore. When  opportunity  served,  the  great  topic  of  the  day, 
the  death,  of  the  emperor  and  its  possible  consequences,  was 
spoken  of  between  them.  The  flattering  letter  of  the  car- 
dinal upon  the  "  Anti-Machiavelli "  was  brought  into  play; 
or,  as  Voltaire  wrote  to  the  cardinal,  "  I  have  obeyed  the 
orders  which  your  Eminence  did  not  give  me,  and  have  shown 
your  letter  to  the  King  of  Prussia."  It  was  a  bad  move. 
He  would  not  have  recalled  that  embarrassing  publication  if 
he  had  known  what  was  passing  in  the  king's  mind,  and 
whither  those  regiments  were  tending  which  were  on  the 
march  in  various  parts  of  the  Prussian  dominions. 

But  he  did  not  know.  Frederic  II.  had  two  kingly  traits, 
—  decision  and  secrecy,  —  without  which  no  man  is  king. 
He  knew  pi-ecisely  what  he  meant  to  do,  and  he  confided  his 
intention  only  to  the  three  individuals  who  must  of  necessity 
know  it.  This  excessive  gayety,  these  rollicking  verses,  this 
musical  assiduity,  these  feasts  and  balls,  were  merely  his  mode 
of  concealing  himself  during  the  weeks  that  had  to  elapse 
before  he  was  ready  to  begin  his  invasion  of  Silesia.  Voltaire, 
therefore,  after  his  six  days'  stay  at  Remusburg,  went  away 
without  having  discovered  or  guessed  Frederic's  purpose. 
He  mentions  in  his  "History  of  the  Reign  of  Louis  XV." 
that  he  was  with  the  King  of  Prussia  at  this  critical  time,  and 
could  assert  positively  that  Cardinal  de  Fleury  had  not  the 


i 


VOLTAIRE  AS  AMATEUR  DIPLOMATIST.  441 

least  idea  what  kind  of  a  prince  lie  had  to  do  with.  He  did 
not  conceal  his  disappointment.  Before  leaving  he  gave  the 
king  this  epigram  :  — 

"  No,  despite  your  virtues,  no,  despite  your  charms,  my  soul 
is  not  satisfied;  no,  you  are  only  a  coquette  who  subjugates 
hearts,  but  does  not  give  one." 

To  this  the  king  made  a  happy  reply :  "  My  soul  feels  the 
value  of  your  divine  charms,  but  does  not  presume  to  be  satis- 
fied. Traitor,  you  leave  me  to  follow  a  coquette,  —  me,  who 
would  not  leave  you." 

The  amateur  diplomatist  went  to  Berlin  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  the  queen  and  the  queen  dowager ;  to  Potsdam 
also  ;  then  returned  to  Berlin,  where  asrain  he  saw  the  kino% 
and  joined  the  French  ambassador  in  vain  attempts  to  divine 
impending  events.  To  both  of  them,  on  the  subject  of  his 
intentions,  the  king  was  still  evasive  or  dumb.  Early  in  De- 
cember the  visitor  set  out  on  his  return  to  the  Hao;ue,  leaving 
Berlin  excited  and  expectant,  waiting  anxiously  for  a  develop- 
ment of  the  king's  designs.  The  royal  manifesto  which  briefly 
announced  them  was  published  about  a  week  after  Voltaire's 
departure,  and  while  he  was  still  struggling  along  on  miry 
German  roads. 

We  perceive  from  their  familiar  letters  that,  during  this 
visit,  each  of  these  gushing  lovers  discovered  that  the  other 
was  human.  The  king  asked  for  an  account  of  Voltaire's  ex- 
penditures in  his  service,  —  moneys  spent  in  journeys  between 
Brussels  and  Holland,  printer's  charges,  copyist's  wages,  and 
other  items.  In  reckoning  with  the  king,  Voltaire  added  the 
expenses  of  the  present  journey,  which  was  undertaken  at 
Frederic's  urgent  request,  as  well  as  for  his  pleasui^e  and  pur- 
poses, —  its  diplomatic  character  being  an  incident  and  an 
after-thought.  The  total  was  thirteen  hundred  crowns  [«?cms]. 
And  most  of  it  was  for  the  "  Anti-Machiavelli,"  so  absurdly 
embarrassing  at  that  moment !  This  king,  moreover,  had 
another  royal  trait,  without  which  no  man  is  long  a  king, 
namely,  a  fixed  principle  and  habit  of  ruling  his  expenses  with 
exactness.  He  was  no  lavish  semblance  of  a  monarch,  like 
a  Louis  XIV.,  but  the  veritable  ruler  of  his  country,  and  in 
some  degree  aware  of  his  responsibility  to  his  "  fellow-citi- 
zens," whose  hard-earned  monev  he  administered,  not  owned. 


442  LIFE   OF  VOLTATRE. 

But  Voltaire  also  possessed  this  trait  of  the  victor.  He,  too, 
knew  the  value  of  money,  and  hence  presented  his  large  sum 
total,  only  omitting  from  the  account  five  months  of  his  own 
time,  so  precious  in  Frederic's  eyes.  The  king  paid  the 
bill  with  a  wry  face.  He  even  exhibited  the  wry  face  to 
Jordan. 

"  Your  miser,"  wrote  the  king,  November  28tii,  to  that 
most  familiar  of  all  his  familiars,  "  will  drink  the  dregs  of  his 
insatiable  desire  to  enrich  himself ;  he  will  have  thirteen  hun- 
dred crowns.  His  six  days'  visit  will  cost  me  five  hundred 
and  fi^fty  crowns  a  day.  This  is  paying  a  fool  [fou]  well. 
Never  did  the  buffoon  of  a  great  lord  have  such  wages." 

This  might  have  been  deemed  the  irritation  of  a  moment,  if 
the  king  had  not  added,  two  days  after,  "  The  brain  of  the  poet 
is  as  light  as  the  style  of  his  works,  and  I  flatter  myself  that 
the  attractiveness  of  Berlin  will  have  power  enough  to  make 
him  return  thither  immediately,  and  the  more  since  the  purse 
of  the  marchioness  is  not  always  as  well  furnished  as  mine. 
You  will  deliver  to  this  man,  extraordinary  in  everything,  the 
letter  inclosed,  with  a  little  compliment  in  the  style  of  a  know- 
ing procuress."  Again,  a  day  or  two  after,  "  I  can  assure 
you  that  Voltaire  has  made  a  subtle  collection  of  the  ridicu- 
lous people  of  Berlin  for  reproduction  at  the  proper  time  and 
place,  and  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Impromptus  [Jordan]  will 
have  his  place  among  them,  as  I  mine.  I  have  lost  those 
verses  which  he  wrote  upon  some  tablets.  Send  them  to  me 
again." 

It  is  a  bad  habit  in  a  king  to  allow  himself  such  license  as 
this ;  for  the  time  comes,  at  last,  when  the  contrast  between 
the  language  addressed  to  a  favorite  and  the  language  em- 
ployed in  speaking  of  him  comes  to  the  favorite's  knowledge. 
There  were,  in  fact,  two  men  in  this  Frederic  II.  of  Prussia, 
as  in  an  engrafted  tree  there  are  two  trees.  His  stock  was 
that  of  a  strong,  coarse,  hard,  ambitious,  upright  and  down- 
right Prussian  soldier, — very  much  what  his  father  would  have 
been  if  he  had  had  a  good  French  tutor  in  his  boyhood,  and 
avoided  excess  in  wine  and  tobacco.  Inheriting  something  less 
of  animal  vigor  than  that  of  the  paternal  "  ogre,"  Frederic  had 
had  an  intelligent  and  gifted  French  teacher,  who  engrafted 
upon  him  that  culture  which  made  him,  for  half  a  century, 


VOLTAIRE  AS  AMATEUE   DIPLOMATIST.  443 

turn  to  Voltaire  with  longing  and  admiration,  even  from  the 
field  of  battle,  — even  from  the  midst  of  carnage,  disaster,  de- 
feat, and  despair.  But  he  never  was  a  Frenchman  ;  with  all 
his  merits  he  was  an  imperfectly  civilized  being. 

In  France,  in  Rome,  in  England,  in  New  England,  in  all 
advanced  civilizations,  women  are  at  once  the  price  and  prize 
of  the  social  system ;  its  risk  and  its  reward.  They  do  not 
rule;  they  reign.  They  ai'e  not  formed  to  rule,  but  to  give 
lustre,  charm,  interest,  and  dignity  to  social  life.  Now,  this 
Prussian  Fredei'ic,  with  such  a  termagant  of  a  mother  as  he 
had,  and  a  mild,  submissive  princess  forced  upon  him  as  a  wife, 
came  to  hold  the  whole  sex  in  a  certain  aversion,  and  never 
admitted  one  of  them  to  his  familiar  court.  He  tried  to  be 
happy  without  paying  the  price.  He  tried  to  enjoy  the  play 
without  buying  a  ticket.  His  correspondence  with  his  wife  is 
one  of  the  curiosities  of  epistolary  literature,  —  brief,  punctual, 
polite,  and,  as  the  poor  queen  herself  remarked,  icy,  rjlaciale. 
The  whole  forty-seven  years  of  it  occupies  no  more  space  than 
his  correspondence  with  Voltaire  during  single  months.  He 
would  announce  to  her  the  gain  or  loss  of  a  battle  in  three 
lines,  in  two  lines,  in  one  line,  while  writing  to  him  four  pages. 
In  communicating  to  her  the  news  of  the  battle  of  Soor,  he 
extended  himself  to  three  lines,  half  a  line  of  which  read  thus : 
"  They  say  that  Prince  Louis  is  wounded."  Prince  Louis  was 
the  queen's  brother.  On  another  occasion  he  announced  to 
her  the  death  of  a  brother  in  battle,  and  added,  "  I  pity  you, 
madame,  for  the  pain  which  it  is  natural  you  should  feel  at 
the  death  of  your  relations,  but  these  are  events  for  which  there 
is  no  remedy." 

The  queen  was  not  insensible  to  this  treatment.  "I  am 
accustomed  to  his  manners,"  she  wrote  on  this  occasion  to  one 
of  her  brothers,  "  but  not  on  that  account  the  less  wounded 
by  them,  especially  at  such  a  time,  when  one  of  my  brothers 
has  lost  his  life  in  his  service.  It  is  too  cruel  for  him  to  have 
such  manners."  ^ 

It  was  not  "  manners  ;  "  the  man  was  dead  on  that  side.     It 
was  not  possible  for  him  to  feel  with  a  woman's  heart,  or  see 
with  a  woman's  eyes,  or  have  the  least  intimation  of  the  com- 
plex reasons,  for  example,  why  Voltaire  could  not  break  the 
1  26  (Euvrea  de  Frederic  le  Grand,  23. 


444  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

irksome  bond  that  bound  him  to  an  exacting  and  exasperating 
marchioness.  He  endeavored  to  supply  the  void  in  his  life, 
—  which  women  alone  can  fill  in  men's  lives  and  hearts  —  by 
surrounding  himself  with  the  most  gifted  spirits  in  Europe.  It 
is  consoling  to  know  that  this  attempt  was  not  successful. 

Voltaire,  meanwhile,  was  hastening  homeward,  dreading  to 
meet  his  tyrant  at  Brussels.  He  had  originally  timed  his 
flight  into  Prussia  so  as  to  get  back  before  she  had  returned 
from  Fontainebleau.  The  king  had  begged  him  for  two  more 
days ;  but  away  he  sped  to  the  Hague ;  whence,  pursuing  his 
journey  by  water,  he  was  caught  in  the  ice,  and  detained  mo- 
tionless tw^elve  days.  He  employed  the  time,  in  the  cabin  of 
the  vessel,  in  working  upon  his  tragedy  of  "  Mahomet  "  and 
writing  long  letters  to  his  friends.  He  might  well  be  afraid  to 
meet  Madame  du  Chatelet.  She  looked  upon  this  diplomatic 
adventure  with  the  indignation  and  alarm  of  a  woman  who 
had  detected  her  lover  going  to  a  rendezvous.  He  was  a  whole 
month  in  getting  from  Berlin  to  Brussels,  a  journey  now  of  ten 
hours,  so  that  he  was  two  months  absent !  She  poured  out  her 
sorrows  to  the  Count  d'Argental:  — 

"  I  have  been  cruelly  repaid  for  all  that  I  did  for  him  at  Fontaine- 
bleau, where  I  put  in  good  train  for  him  an  affair  the  most  difficult 
that  can  be  imagined.  I  procure  for  M.  de  Voltaire  an  honorable 
return  to  his  country ;  I  restore  to  him  the  good-will  of  the  ministry ; 
I  open  to  him  the  road  to  the  Academies ;  in  a  word,  I  give  him  back 
in  three  weeks  all  that  he  had  taken  pains  to  lose  in  six  years.  Do 
you  know  how  he  recompenses  so  much  zeal  and  attachment  ?  When 
he  sets  out  for  Berlin  he  dryly  sends  me  the  news  of  his  departure,  well 
knowing  that  it  would  pierce  my  heart ;  and  he  abandons  me  to  a  grief 
without  example,  of  which  others  have  not  the  idea,  and  which  your 
heart  alone  can  comprehend.  I  heated  my  blood  so  much  by  sitting 
up  at  night,  and  my  chest  was  in  so  bad  a  condition,  that  a  fever  has 

seized  me,  and  I  hope  soon  to  end  my  Hfe Would  you  believe 

that  the  idea  which  occupies  me  most  in  these  fatal  moments  is  the 
frightful  grief  which  will  be  the  lot  of  M.  de  Voltaire  when  the  in- 
toxication  wherein  he  now  is  of  the  court  of  Prussia  is  diminished  ?  I 
cannot  sustain  the  thought  that  the  recollection  of  me  will  one  day  be 
his  torment.  All  those  who  have  loved  me  must  refrain  from  re- 
proaching him." 

These  words  were  written  at  the  time  when  Voltaire  was  us- 
ing all  his  force  to  tear  himself  from  that  intoxicating  court, 


VOLTAIRE  AS  AMATEUE  DIPLOMATIST.  445 

only  that  he  might  rejoin  her.  Nevertheless,  the  unhappy 
■woman  was  not  altogether  mistaken.  The  tie  which  bound 
him  to  her  was  beginning  to  be  extremely  inconvenient,  and 
he  sometimes  said  as  much  to  his  intimate  friends.  From  the 
cabin  of  his  yacht  he  wrote  to  the  King  of  Prussia  some  lines 
which  Madame  du  Chatelet  might  have  read  with  advantage 
to  both : — 

"  I  abandon  a  great  monarch  who  cultivates  and  honors  an  art  which 
I  idolize,  and  I  go  to  join  a  person  who  reads  nothing  but  the  meta- 
physics of  Christianus  Volfius.  I  tear  myself  from  the  most  amiable 
court  in  Europe  for  a  lawsuit.  I  did  not  leave  your  adorable  court  to 
sigh  like  an  idiot  at  a  woman's  knees.  But,  sire,  that  woman  aban- 
doned for  me  everything  for  which  other  women  abandon  their  friends. 
There  is  no  sort  of  obligation  which  I  am  not  under  to  her.  The 
coiffure  and  the  petticoat  which  she  wears  do  not  render  the  duties  of 
gratitude  less  sacred.  Love  is  often  ridiculous ;  but  pure  friendship 
has  rights  more  binding  than  a  king's  commands.  My  little  fortune 
mingled  with  hers  places  no  obstacle  to  the  extreme  desire  which  I 
have  to  pass  my  days  near  your  majesty." 

The  news  of  the  invasion  of  Silesia  in  December  smoothed 
the  way  for  the  happy  return  of  the  baffled  diplomatist ;  for 
he  could  assign  to  his  departure  a  motive  more  dignified  than 
lovers  can  usually  offer  for  their  late  return.  Peace  was  soon 
restored  between  them,  and  Voltaire  could  write  to  their  guard- 
ian angel,  D'Argental,  that  they  were  more  lovers  than  ever, 
and  that  he  would  not  go  to  Prussia  if  the  king  should  make 
him  a  free  gift  of  Silesia. 

The  invasion  of  that  province  astonished  no  man  in  Europe 
more  than  it  did  Voltaire ;  and  he  was  obliged  to  agree  with 
Madame  du  Chatelet  that  there  could  not  be  a  more  glaring 
contradiction  between  word  and  deed  than  the  seizure  of  the 
province  presented  to  various  passages  of  the  "  Anti-Machia- 
velli,"  which  the  editor  had  modified,  but  not  erased.  Ma- 
dame was  not  ill  pleased  to  see  the  idol  step  down  from  his 
pedestal.  "  He  may  take  as  many  provinces  as  he  likes,"  said 
she,  "  if  he  does  not  take  from  me  that  which  makes  the  hap- 
piness of  my  life."  Voltaire  was  something  more  than  aston- 
ished, so  warmly  had  he  certified  to  the  young  monarch's  pa- 
cific and  magnanimous  character.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
think.    He  wrote  to  the  Countess  d'Argental,  March  13, 1741 : 


446  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

"  I  do  not  yet  know  if  the  King  of  Prussia  deserves  the  in- 
terest which  we  take  in  him.  He  is  a  king  ;  that  makes  one 
tremble.  Time  will  tell."  On  the  same  day  to  Cideville  : 
"  The  cat  of  La  Fontaine,  metamorphosed  into  a  woman,  runs 
after  the  mice  as  soon  as  she  catches  sight  of  them,  and  the 
prince  throws  off  his  philosopher's  mantle  and  takes  the  sword 
as  soon  as  he  sees  a  province  at  his  mercy."  Again  to  Cide- 
ville, a  little  later:  "After  all,  he  is  only  a  king."  The 
strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  Frederic,  from  the  midst  of  his 
rapid  campaign,  found  time  to  write  his  usual  chatty,  poetical 
epistles  to  Voltaire,  and  wrote  with  all  his  former  careless 
gayety. 

Nor  did  Voltaire  neglect  to  call  the  king's  attention,  with 
his  usual  adroitness,  to  the  apparent  inconsistency  of  his  pro- 
ceedings in  Silesia.  On  recovering  from  an  indisposition  in 
April,  1741,  he  wrote  thus  to  the  young  conqueror:  "I  put 
only  one  foot  upon  the  border  of  the  Styx  ;  but  I  was  very 
sorry,  sire,  at  the  number  of  poor  wretches  that  I  saw  passing 
over.  Some  arrived  from  Scharding,  others  from  Prague  or 
from  Iglau.  Will  you  not  cease  —  you  and  the  kings,  your 
colleagues  —  to  ravage  this  earth,  which  you  have,  you  say,  so 
much  desire  to  render  happy  ?  "  To  which  the  king  replied 
in  a  tone  as  far  removed  from  that  of  the  "  Anti-Machiavelli  " 
as  even  Madame  du  Chatelet  could  have  desired,  in  her  worst 
humor.  "  You  ask  me,"  said  he,  "  how  long  messieurs  my 
brother  kings  have  given  themselves  the  word  to  devastate 
the  earth.  My  reply  is  that  I  know  nothing  about  it ;  only 
it  is  the  fashion  at  present  to  make  war,  and  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  it  will  last  a  long  time.  The  Abbd  de  Saint- 
Pierre,  who  sufficiently  distinguislies  me  to  honor  me  with  his 
correspondence,  has  sent  me  a  beautiful  work  upon  a  mode  of 
restoring  peace  to  Europe,  and  of  preserving  it  forever.  The 
thing  is  very  practicable.  Nothing  is  wanting  to  make  it  suc- 
ceed except  the  consent  of  Europe,  and  some  other  bagatelles 
of  that  kind." 

Voltaire,  however,  returned  to  the  charge  both  in  prose  and 
in  verse.  He  told  the  king  how  much  he  wondered  and  la- 
mented that  the  Solomon  of  the  North  should  have  become  its 
Alexander,  the  affright  of  the  world,  after  having  been  the 
object  of  its  love.     "  I  hate  heroes ;  they  make  too  much  dis- 


VOLTAIRE   AS   AMATEUR  DIPLOMATIST.  447 

turbance.  I  hate  those  conquerors  who  find  their  supreme 
happiness  in  the  horrors  of  the  fight."  Even  the  victories  of 
the  king  wrung  from  him  only  a  qualified  congratulation.  "  I 
think  of  humanity,  sire,  before  thinking  of  yourself ;  but  after 
having,  like  the  Abbe  de  Saint-Pierre,  wept  for  the  human 
race,  of  which  you  have  become  the  terror,  I  deliver  myself  to 
all  the  joy  which  your  glory  gives  me.  That  glory  will  be 
complete  if  your  majesty  forces  the  Queen  of  Hungary  to  ac- 
cept peace   and  to  make  the  Germans  happy Go  on, 

sire  ;  but  make  at  least  as  many  people  happy  in  this  world  as 
you  have  taken  out  of  it." 

To  this  the  king  promptly  replied  :  "  Do  not  believe  me 
cruel ;  but  think  rather  that  I  am  reasonable  enough  to  choose 
an  evil  when  it  is  necessary  to  avoid  a  worse.  Every  man  who 
makes  up  his  mind  to  have  a  tooth  out  when  it  is  decayed 
would  give  battle  when  he  wished  to  terminate  a  war.  To 
shed  blood  in  such  a  conjuncture  is  truly  to  spare  it ;  it  is  a 
blood-letting  which  we  give  an  enemy  in  delirium,  and  which 
restores  him  to  his  senses."  Voltaire  again  pressing  the  king 
hard,  and  reminding  him  that  it  was  he  who  began  the  war, 
Frederic  rejoined,  with  what  was  intended  to  be  a  home  thrust, 
"  You  declaim  at  your  ease  against  those  who  sustain  their 
rights  and  their  claims  by  force  of  arms ;  but  I  remember  a 
time  when,  if  you  had  had  an  army,  it  would,  no  doubt,  have 
marched  against  the  Desfontaines,  the  Rousseaus,  the  Van 
Durens,  and  others.  Until  the  platonic  arbitration  of  the 
Abb^  Saint-Pierre  is  established,  there  will  remain  no  other 
resource  to  kings  to  terminate  their  differences." 

In  this  strange  correspondence  they  touched  all  their  usual 
topics,  even  religion  ;  the  king  again  remonstrating  with  Vol- 
taire for  troubling  himself  with  a  subject  at  once  so  trivial 
and  so  perilous.  "  There  are  so  many  things,"  he  wrote  once 
from  camp,  "  to  be  said  against  religion  that  I  wonder  they 
do  not  occur  to  everybody.  But  men  are  not  made  for  the 
truth.  I  regard  them  as  a  herd  of  deer  in  the  park  of  a  great 
lord,  which  have  no  function  but  to  people  and  occupy  the 
inclosure." 

Voltaire  remonstrated  :  "  I  fear  that  you  are  coming  to  de- 
spise men  too  much.  The  millions  of  animals  without  feath- 
ers, with  two  feet,  who  people  the  earth,  are  at  an  immense 


448  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

distance  from  your  person,  as  well  in  their  souls  as  in  their 
condition.     There  is  a  beautiful  verse  of  Milton  :  — 

'  Amongst  unequals  no  society.' "  ' 

Lib.  viii.,  V.  387. 

He  hoped,  however,  that  the  king  would  not  take  too 
severe  a  view  of  human  nature,  nor  think  a  king  could  not  be 
loved  for  his  own  sake.  And  so  each  of  these  sovereigns  of 
Europe  pursued  his  career,  and  exchanged  their  thoughts ; 
neither  quite  sincere  with  the  other  ;  and  each  having  for  the 
other  a  considerable,  even  a  warm,  but  no  longer  an  unquali- 
fied regard. 

1  "  Amongst  unequals  what  society 

Can  sort,  what  harmony  or  true  delight  1  " 
Paradise  Lost,  Book  VIII. 


I 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

"  MAHOMET  "  AND  "  MEROPE." 

The  first  week  of  the  new  year,  1741,  found  him  again  set- 
tled at  Brussels,  much  improved  in  health  by  his  two  months' 
contention  with  the  elements.  Madame  du  Chatelet  and 
himself  were  at  once  absorbed  in  labors,  literary  and  legal, 
scientific  and  metaphysical,  dramatic  and  historical.  An  im- 
portant point  was  gained,  this  spring,  in  the  interminable 
lawsuit,  after  two  years  of  exertion  ;  and  it  was  gained,  as 
Voltaire  observes,  by  the  courage,  the  intelligence,  and  the 
fatigues  of  Madame  du  Chatelet.  This  advantage,  he  thought, 
would  abridge  the  suit  by  two  years,  and  made  final  success 
probable. 

The  reader  may  imagine  that  such  a  disturbed,  tumultuous 
life,  so  far  from  books  and  conveniences,  must  have  been 
detrimental  to  an  author's  proper  work.  It  would  have  been 
to  that  of  most  men ;  but  Vollaire  was,  as  the  King  of 
Prussia  remarked,  extraordinary  in  everything.  These  inter- 
ruptions may  have  saved  him.  He  possessed,  moreover,  the 
power  of  snatching  his  work  from  the  social  tumult,  the  domes- 
tic broil,  the  mire,  the  waves,  the  ice.  He  could  work  in  his 
carriage  ;  he  could  elaborate  a  play  in  the  cabin  of  an  ice-bound 
vessel ;  he  could  dictate  in  bed  ;  and  when  he  was  so  sick 
that  he  could  not  do  that,  he  could  always,  as  Madame  du 
Chatelet  mentions,  correct  his  poems,  and  even  compose  verses 
for  a  tragedy.  He  never  worked  more  successfully  than  dur- 
ing this  Brussels  lawsuit  period,  from  1739  to  1745 ;  and  so 
he  thought  himself.  "I  have  never,"  he  wrote  to  Cideville 
in  January,  1740,  when  he  was  in  the  full  tide  of  his  "  Ma- 
homet," "been  so  inspired  by  my  gods,  or  so  possessed  by  my 
demons.  I  know  not  if  the  last  efforts  I  have  made  are  those 
of  a  fire  about  to  be  extinguished." 

That    famous    tragedy,  one    of    the    most   vigorously  tem- 

VOL.  I.  29 


450  LITE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

pered  of  all  his  plays,  was  now  ready  for  the  stage.  The  mo- 
ment cliosen  for  the  action  of  this  drama  is  indicated  by  two 
of  its  celebrated  lines  :  — 

"  Aujourd'hui  c'est  un  prince  ;  il  triomphe,  il  domine ; 
Imposteur  a  la  Mecque,  et  prophete  a  Medine." 

Revered  as  a  prophet,  as  the  prophet,  at  Medina,  his  na- 
tive Mecca  is  still  restrained  to  the  old  ways  by  an  aged, 
powerful  sheik,  the  venerable  and  beloved  Zopire.  Mahomet 
and  a  few  of  his  chiefs  are  allowed  to  enter  Mecca,  where, 
first,  they  seek  to  gain  over  Zopire  and  his  party  by  argument 
and  persuasion.  This  gives  occasion  to  some  scenes  of  com- 
manding interest,  in  which  Voltaire  rises  to  a  degree  of 
dramatic  force  and  fire  which  we  can  enjoy  even  without  for- 
getting Shakespeare*;  and  this  the  more  as  he  did  not  him- 
self forget  Shakespeare.  Tliere  are  reminiscences  of  Brutus 
and  Cassius  in  some  of  these  fierce  dialogues  of  "  Mahomet ; " 
the  most  important  of  which  are  between  the  aged  Zopire 
and  the  chief  of  the  new  religion.  But  the  spirit  of  those 
dialogues  was  the  new  wine  which  was  to  break  the  old  bot- 
ties  of  the  European  system  to  pieces,  and  intoxicate  the 
human  soul.  The  old  sheik  taunts  Omar,  a  trusted  lieuten- 
ant of  Mahomet,  with  the  low  birth  of  his  prophet.  "  Mortals 
are  equal,"  replies  Omar;  "not  birth,  but  worth  alone,  makes 
the  difference  between  them.  Mahomet  is  one  of  those  spir- 
its, heaven-endowed,  who  are  what  they  are  of  themselves, 
and  owe  to  their  ancestors  nothing." 

The  great  lesson  of  the  play  is  that  the  founders  of  false 
religions  at  once  despise  and  practice  upon  the  docile  credu- 
lity of  men.  When  I  remember  that  this  powerful  exhibition 
of  executive  force  triumphing  over  credulity  and  weakness 
was  vividly  stamped  upon  the  susceptible  brain  of  Frederic  by 
Voltaire's  impassioned  declamation,  at  the  very  time  when  he 
was  revolving  his  Silesian  project,  I  am  inclined  to  the  con- 
jecture that  it  may  have  been  the  deciding  influence  upon 
the  king's  mind.  All  the  utterances  of  Mahomet  and  Omar 
breathe  the  same  impious  contempt  of  human  kind  which  the 
King  of  Prussia  so  often  expressed  at  this  period  of  his  life. 
"  The  people,  blind  and  feeble,  are  born  for  the  great, —  are 
born  to  admire,  to  believe,  and  obey  us."  ZoplRE.  —  "  Who 
made  him  king  ?    Who  crowned  him  ?    Omar.  —  "  Victory  !  " 


"MAHOMET"   AND   "M^ROPE."  451 

ZoPiRE.  —  "  What  right  have  you  received  to  teach,  to  fore- 
tell, to  carry  the  censer,  to  affect  the  empire  ?  "  Mahomet. — 
"  The  right  tvhich  a  spirit^  vast  mid  firm  in  its  designs,  has 
over  the  dull  soids  of  common  men.'''' 

In  the  earlier  scenes  of  the  play  the  interest  is  chiefly 
intellectual ;  it  is  the  conflict  between  the  virtuous  adherents 
of  an  ancient  faith  and  the  ruthless  founder  of  a  new  one. 
Later,  the  interest  arises  from  the  struggle  of  opposing  pas- 
sions. It  is'  necessary  to  Mahomet's  purposes  that  the  aged 
Zopire  should  be  destroyed,  and  he  selects  as  the  assassin  a 
young  zealot,  weak  enough,  as  Omar  intimates,  to  believe 
the  new  religion,  without  thought  or  question.  But  it  re- 
quires the  utmost  exertion  of  Mahomet's  fascinating  and  com- 
manding personality  to  work  the  brave  youth  up  to  the  point 
of  slaying  a  defenseless  old  man.  When  he  recoils,  Mahomet 
addresses  him  thus  :  — 

"  Rash  man,  to  deliberate  is  sacrilege.  Far  from  me  be 
mortals  bold  enough  to  judge  for  themselves,  and  see  with  their 
own  eyes.  Whoever  dares  to  think  is  not  born  to  be  my 
disciple.  Your  sole  glory  is  to  obey  in  silence.  Know  you 
who  I  am  ?  Know  you  the  place  wherein  my  voice  charged 
you  with  the  commands  of  heaven  ?  If  Mecca  is  a  sacred 
spot,  do  you  know  the  reason  ?  Abraham  was  born  here, 
and  here  his  dust  reposes, —  Abraham,  whose  arm,  submis- 
sive to  the  Eternal,  drew  his  only  son  to  the  steps  of  the  altar, 
stifling  for  his  God  the  cries  of  nature.  And  when  that  God 
by  you  desires  to  avenge  his  wrong,  you  hesitate !  Go,  base 
idolater  ;  fly,  serve,  crawl,  under  my  proud  enemies  !  " 

The  young  fanatic  yields  ;  the  murder  is  done ;  and  Ma- 
homet rules  in  Mecca.  A  complicated  love  story  intensifies 
the  later  scenes,  and  renders  the  play  effective  upon  the 
French  stage.  The  obvious  perils  which  such  a  subject  of- 
fered to  such  a  poet  were  avoided  with  much  art,  and  the 
weight  of  the  satire  was  carefully  confined  to  false  religion. 

Among  the  English  visitors  to  Brussels  who  frequented  the 
house  of  Madame  du  Chatelet  was  Lord  Chesterfield,  and  to 
him  Voltaire  read  portions  of  the  play.'  Chesterfield  deemed 
it  a  covert  attack  upon  the  Christian  religion.  He  thought 
that  where  the  author  wrote  Mahomet  he  meant  Jesus  Christ. 
But,  assuredly,  in  the  play  as  we  now  have  it,  there  is  not  a 


452  LIFE   OP   VOLTAIRE. 

phrase  that  gives  the  slightest  countenance  to  such  an  idea. 
If  tliere  are  in  it  any  alhisions  to  Christian  history'  or  French 
fanatic  assassinations,  they  are  completely  veiled  from  foreign 
eyes. 

And  now,  in  the  spring  of  1741,  the  tragedy  was  ready  for 
presentation.  The  retirement  of  two  or  three  leading  actors 
from  the  Th(iatre-Francais  induced  the  author  to  defer  its 
production  there,  when  an  opportunity  occurred  to  exhibit  it 
upon  a  provincial  stage  near  at  hand.  It  was  those  fatal 
mushrooms  of  the  German  emperor  that  gave  him  this  un- 
expected chance.  The  company  of  French  comedians  with 
whom  he  had  been  negotiating  on  behalf  of  the  King  of  Prus- 
sia were  then  established  at  the  large  industrial  city  of  Lille, 
fifty  miles  west  of  Brussels,  where  also  his  niece,  Madame 
Denis,  lived  with  her  husband.  The  manager  was  indignant 
upon  learning  that  the  treaty  was  to  be  broken  off.  He  was 
of  opinion  that  the  king  had  gone  too  far  to  retreat  without 
dishonor.  He  was  even  tempted  to  expose  the  proceeding  to 
the  public,  and  to  select  a  moment  for  the  purpose  when  the 
eyes  of  Europe  were  fixed  upon  the  King  of  Prussia.  Voltaire 
hastened  to  appease  him,  and  as  one  means  to  that  end  con- 
sented to  the  first  production  of  his  "  Mahomet "  at  Lille. 

The  play  was  given  in  May,  1741 ;  the  author  present,  ac- 
companied by  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  Madame  Denis  ;  the 
theatre  filled  with  an  expectant  and  excited  auditory,  flattered 
by  a  distinction  accorded  to  a  stage  two  hundred  miles  from 
Paris.  The  first  acts  passed  off  extremely  well.  While  the 
poet  was  sitting  in  his  box  waiting  for  the  third  act  to  begin, 
a  dispatch  was  handed  to  him  from  the  King  of  Prussia,  an- 
nouncing the  victory  of  Molwitz,  the  first  of  his  long  series 
of  triumphs  in  the  field.  The  dispatch  of  two  lines,  written 
two  days  after  the  battle,  was  penned  by  a  flying  victor,  by  a 
commanding  general  who  ran  away  from  his  own  victorious 
army  :  — 

"  It  is  said  the  Austrians  are  in  retreat,  and  I  believe  it  is 
true.  Frederic."  ^ 

The  people  of  Lille,  who  had  been  besieged  by  Austrian 
troops  within  living  raemoiw,  could  be  nothing  less  than  en- 
thusiastic partisans  of  a  young  monarch  warring  against  Aus- 
1  Voltaire  to  D'Argental,  May  5,  1741. 


"MAHOMET"  AND   "  M^ROPE."  453 

tria  at  the  head  of  his  own   battalions.     The  author  of  the 
play,  prompt  to  seize  an  advantage,  rose  in  his  box  and  read 
the  dispatch  to  the  audience,  who  received  it   with   the  due 
thunders  of  applause.     The   play  itself  seemed  to   share  the 
triumph  of  the  king,  and  it  was  played  to  the  end  with  a  suc- 
cess the  most  unequivocal.     It  was  repeated  the  next  evening 
with    equal    applause,  and  was  demanded  for  the  third  time. 
"  T^e  came   near,"  writes  Madame  du   Chatelet,  "exciting  a 
riot  in  the  pit,  because  we  hesitated  to  accord  the  third  repre- 
sentation."    There  was  even  a  fourth  presentation  of  the  play, 
at  the  house  of  one  of  the  magistrates,  for  the  convenience  of 
the  clergy,  who,  as  the  poet  remarked,  "  wished  absolutely  to 
see  a  founder  of  religion."     This,  also,  received  the  unani- 
mous approval  of  the  spectators,  who  were  of  opinion  that  the 
author  had  avoided  the  rocks  and  quicksands  which  the  sub- 
ject presented.     The  performance  of  the  play  also  justified  the 
author's  high   recommendation  of  the  company  to  the  king. 
"  The  manager,"   he   wrote,     "  with    the   face  of   a  monkey, 
played  Mahomet  better  than  Dufresne,  and  Baron  made  the 
whole  audience  cry,  as  when  one  bleeds  from  the  nose." 

These  performances  of  the  tragedy  upon  a  provincial  stage 
the  author  regarded  only  as  dress  rehearsals,  and  he  sub- 
jected it  to  many  a  severe  revision.  One  thing  was  reas- 
suring:  the  clergy  of  Lille  saw  no  offense  in  it.  And,  in 
very  truth,  even  from  a  Jansenist  point  of  view,  there  was  no 
offense  ;  not  a  line,  not  a  phrase,  to  which  the  most  sensitive 
Catholic  could  plausibly  object.  Various  circumstances  re- 
tarded its  representation  in  Paris.  A  Turkish  envoy,  with  a 
numerous  suite,  w^as  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the  great  houses 
of  Paris  during  the  next  winter,  and  the  poet  thought  "  it 
would  not  be  decent  to  blacken  the  Prophet  while  entertaining 
his  ambassador."  The  Turk  departed  at  length,  when  a  far 
more  alarming  obstacle  arose.  At  a  moment,  in  the  summer 
of  1742,  when  Frederic  of  Prussia  seemed  about  to  enter 
upon  that  course  of  polities  which  was  to  make  him  an  enemy 
of  France,  and  when,  in  consequence,  he  was  an  unpopular 
person  in  Paris,  one  of  Voltaire's  comic  versified  letters  to 
the  king  appeared  in  the  gazettes.  A  post-office  clerk  at 
Brussels,  following  the  example  of  his  superiors,  had  broken 
the  seal,  copied  the  letter,  and  put  it  on  its  way  to  publicity. 


454  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIEE. 

"  Here  I  am,  sire,"  it  began,  "  in  Paris  ;  your  capital,  I  be- 
lieve, for  all  the  fools  and  all  the  wits,  clergy,  lawyers,  dan- 
dies, pedants,  speak  of  you  without  pause.  As  soon  as  I 
come  in  sight,  crowds  surround  me  and  block  my  way,  saying, 
Have  you  seen  him  f "  Forty  lines  of  these  airy  nothings, 
ending  with  a  sentence  or  two  in  prose  :  "  But,  sire,  will  you 
be  always  taking  cities,  and  shall  I  always  be  at  the  tail  of 
a  lawsuit  ?  Will  there  not  be  this  summer  some  happy  hours, 
when  I  can  pay  my  court  to  your  majesty?  " 

This  to  a  king  whom  the  people  and  the  ministry  were 
beginning  to  regard  as  a  public  enemy !  It  cost  him  a  world 
of  trouble  and  multitudinous  denials  to  parry  the  stroke.  He 
protested  that  the  letter  had  not  been  correctly  copied ;  he 
wrote  eloquently  to  the  king's  mistress,  declaring  that  he  was 
a  Frenchman  and  a  patriot ;  he  set  in  motion  all  the  means 
of  influence  within  his  command.  Luckily,  the  Cardinal  de 
Fleury,  in  his  extreme  anxiety  during  the  crisis,  again  thought 
of  Voltaire  as  a  possible  conciliator  of  the  King  of  Prussia  ; 
and  so  the  storm  blew  over,  leaving  the  public  in  some  ill- 
humor  with  the  author  of  a  play  announced  for  speedy  rep- 
resentation under  the  title  of  "  Fanaticism,  or,  Mahomet  the 
Prophet." 

The  garrulous  advocate,  Barbier,  probably  gave  the  current 
gossip  of  the  caf^s  when  he  made  his  entry  of  August  8,  1742: 
"  Voltaire  is  generally  decried.  People  are  convinced  that  the 
letter  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  which  he  has  disavowed,  is  cer- 
tainly his Madame   du  Chatelet  is   severely  reflected 

upon  ;  it  is  thought  singular  that  a  woman  of  quality  should 
lead  by  the  hand  a  man  who  has  rendered  himself  the  object 

of  general  contempt No  quarter  is  now  given  her  upon 

her  gallantries.  Her  son's  tutor,  they  say,  was  selected  only 
because  he  valued  himself  upon  having  no  religion.  Nothing 
good  is  said  of  Voltaire's  new  piece,  which,  it  is  thought,  will 
have  a  bad  success  [rnauvais  swcees]." 

Imagine  plenty  of  such  talk  as  this  in  the  more  sedate 
coffee-houses  frequented  by  wig  and  gown.  August  19,  1742, 
the  tragedy  Avas  performed  at  the  Thdatre-Fran^ais.  Every 
precaution  had  been  taken  against  every  possible  danger. 
The  author  had  submitted  the  play,  in  form,  to  the  censor- 
ship; he  had  given  the  manuscript  to  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury, 


II 


"MAHOMET"   AND   "  M^ROPE."  455 

who  approved  it,  and  made  some  suggestions  on  points  purely- 
literary,  which  the  author  adopted.  The  theatre  was  crowded 
with  an  audience  the  most  distinguished  that  Paris  could  fur- 
nish :  many  of  the  ministry  were  present ;  one  great  box  was 
filled  with  magistrates  ;  a  number  of  the  clergy  were  there  ; 
D'Alembert  and  the  literary  men  were  out  in  force ;  Voltaire 
himself  conspicuous  in  the  middle  of  the  pit.  Some  murmurs 
of  disapprobation  were  occasionally  heard ;  but  these  were 
overwhelmed  with  the  general  applause,  and  the  play  gained, 
as  it  seemed,  an  unquestionable  success.  A  second  and  third 
performance  appeared  only  to  confirm  and  establish  the  verdict 
of  the  opening  night. 

But  those  few  murmurers  had  their  way,  notwithstanding. 
Thieriot  used  to  recount  that  a  professor  of  theology  who  was  in 
the  theatre  the  first  night  rushed  out  at  the  close  of  the  play, 
and  went  home  to  the  Sorbonne,  declaring  that  the  new  trag- 
edy was  "  a  bloody  satire  against  the  Christian  religion,"  and 
gave  as  one  reason  for  the  assertion,  that  the  name  of  j\Ia- 
homet  had  three  syllables,  "  the  same  number  as  that  of  the 
adorable  name  of  Jesus  Christ  "  !  The  next  day  the  solicitor- 
general,  Joly  de  Fleuri,  an  important  magistrate,  heard  of  the 
play  in  a  chamber  of  the  parliament  of  Paris,  and  wrote  of  the 
same  to  the  lieutenant  of  police  :  "  I  hear  a  comedy  spoken  of, 
which  some  of  these  gentlemen  have  witnessed,  and  which, 
they  say,  contams  enormous  things  against  religion."  The 
lieutenant  sent  a  copy  of  the  drama  to  the  solicitor-general, 
who,  without  reading  it,  wrote  again  to  the  lieutenant :  — 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  [said  this  enlightened  personage],  that  I 
have  not  read  a  word  of  the  play  ;  but,  judging  from  what  I  hear,  I 
believe  it  is  necessary  to  forbid  its  performance.  Three  persons  of 
my  knowledge  saw  it  yesterday,  and  this  is  what  they  say  of  it"  It  is 
the  acme  of  infamies,  wickedness,  irreligion,  and  impiety ;  and  such  is 
the  judgment  also  of  men  who  have  no  religion.  One  said,  during  the 
performance,  '  I  wonder  the  audience  does  not  rise  and  stop  the  piece.' 
Another  said,  'Here  are  fine  instructions  for  a  Ravaillac'  Another 
said,  '  The  author  should  be  put  in  Bicetre  for  the  rest  of  his  days.' 
One  man,  on  leaving  the  theatre,  met  his  friend,  who  was  also  going 
out,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the  play.  The  reply  was,  '  I 
have  seen  it  three  times.'  To  this  he  responded,  '  Never  will  I  see 
you  again.  To  have  had  the  hardihood  three  times  to  see  such  hor- 
rors ! '     Everybody  says  that  to  have  written  such  a  piece  a  man  must 


456  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

be  a  reprobate  fit  to  burn.     This  is  all  I  have  heard ;  it  is  a  universal 
revolt." 

The  lieutenant  of  police,  awai'e  that  the  tragedy  had  re- 
ceived the  privilege,  despatched  a  courier  extraordinary  to 
Versailles,  to  convey  this  appalling  letter  to  the  minister, 
Maurepas,  who,  in  turn,  passed  it  on  to  the  Cardinal  de 
Fleury.  The  courier  was  not  kept  waiting  many  minutes  for 
his  return  packet,  which  contained  the  following  from  M.  de 
Maurepas  to  the  lieutenant  of  police  :  — 

"  I  took  your  letter,  monsieur,  to  my  lord  the  cardinal,  and  read 
it  to  him,  as  well  as  that  of  the  solicitor-general  which  was  joined 
thereto.  Although  his  Eminence  agrees  substantially  with  you,  he  is 
nevertheless  of  opinion  that  you  ought  not  to  risk  a  scene  for  such  a 
cause,  and  he  approves  that  you  suggest  to  the  actors  to  assign  the 
sickness  of  one  of  their  number  as  a  pretext  for  not  playing  the  piece 
on  Friday  ;  also,  that  you  advise  Voltaire  to  withdraw  the  play  from 
their  hands,  to  avoid  commotion.  I  even  believe  that  you  had  better 
begin  by  the  expedient  last  named,  and  that  he  will  himself  assist  you 
to  cover  your  proceedings.  The  communication  to  him  of  the  epithets 
given  his  play  by  the  solicitor-general,  joined  to  a  certain  decree  of 
the  parliament,  by  virtue  of  which  it  is  in  the  power  of  that  officer  to 
arraign  the  author  of  the  Philosophic  Letters  [upon  England],  will 
render  your  argument  persuasive ;  and  by  this  means  you  will  not  be 
committed  with  any  one.  I  hasten  to  send  back  your  express,  so  that 
you  may  be  able,  before  the  end  of  the  play,  to  speak  to  him,  or  to 
Madame  du  Chatelet." 

The  argument  was  persuasive,  and  the  piece  was  withdrawn 
after  the  fourth  representation.  The  reader  remarks,  doubt- 
less, that  the  connection  between  the  author  of  the  tragedy 
and  Madame  du  Chatelet  was  recognized  and  accepted  by  the 
ministry. 

This  abrupt,  needless  frustration  of  so  many  hopes  and  so 
much  generous  toil  cannot  be  realized  except  by  those  who 
have  borne  something  of  the  kind.  There  was,  too,  a  witty 
Piron  in  the  caf(5s  to  celebrate  the  mishap  by  couplets  and 
epigrams ;  also,  a  malign  Desf ontaines  to  go  about  pretending 
it  was  he  who  had  compelled  the  withdrawal. 

The  Kinsf  of  Prussia  was  not  so  absorbed  in  correcting  the 
map  of  Europe  as  not  to  be  attentive  to  what  passed  at  the 
Theatre- Fran 9ais.    He  asked  Voltaire  to  send  him  the  tragedy 


"MAHOMET"  AND   "  MIEROPE."  457 

as  it  had  been  performed  in  Paris.  The  author  had  it  copied, 
and  sent  it,  Avith  an  apology  for  his  countrymen.  '*  It  is  the 
story  of  Tartuffe  over  again,"  he  wrote,  August  19,  1742. 
"  Hypocrites  persecuted  Moliere,  and  fanatics  rose  against  me. 
I  yielded  to  the  torrent  without  a  word.  If  Socrates  had  done 
as  much,  he  would  not  have  drunk  the  hemlock.  I  avow  that 
I  know  nothing  which  more  dishonors  my  country  than  this 
infamous  superstition,  made  to  degrade  human  nature.  I 
ought  to  have  the  King  of  Prussia  for  a  master,  and  the  peo- 
ple of  England  for  fellow-citizens.  Our  Frenchmen,  in  gen- 
eral, are  only  great  childven  ;  but,  also,  as  I  alwaj^s  insist,  the 
small  number  of  thinking  beings  among  us  are  excellent,  and 
claim  pardon  for  the  rest." 

The  king  took  him  at  his  word,  and  urged  him  to  pay  him 
a  visit  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  Voltaire  spent  a  few  days  with 
him  there  in  September,  when  Frederic,  who  had  just  signed 
a  treaty  of  peace,  renewed  his  endeavors  to  lure  him  away  from 
his  marchioness.  He  offered  him  a  handsome  house  in  Berlin, 
a  pretty  estate  in  the  country,  an  income  ample  for  both,  and 
the  free  enjoyment  of  his  time  ;  in  return,  asking  only  the 
pleasure  of  his  society,  the  honor  of  his  presence,  and  his  ad- 
vice in  matters  relating  to  literature  and  art.  No  more  perse- 
cution !  No  more  Bastille !  No  more  rude  suppressions  of 
immortal  dramas  !  No  more  flights  over  the  border  for  a  few 
gay  and  harmless  verses!  No  Desfontaines  !  Nq  Jansenists  ! 
No  convulsionists !  Instead  of  these,  life-long  basking  in  the 
sunshine  of  royal  favor,  and  the  rank  in  Prussia  of  a  man 
whom  the  king  delighted  to  honor.  But  he  remained  true  to 
his  word.  "  I  courageously  resisted  all  his  fine  propositions," 
he  wrote  to  Cideville.  "  I  prefer  a  second  story  in  the  house 
of  Madame  du  Chatelet ;  and  I  hasten  to  Paris,  to  my  slavery 
and  persecution,  like  a  little  Athenian  who  had  refused  the 
bounties  of  the  King  of  Persia." 

Meanwhile,  the  sudden  withdrawal  of  a  successful  play  by  a 
celebrated  author  was  having  the  natural  effect  of  making  it 
a  European  topic.  Pamphlets  were  published  upon  it.  An 
actor  of  Lille  wrote  one  in  the  form  of  a  letter.  "  The  Senti- 
ments of  a  Spectator "  was  the  title  of  another.  An  unau- 
thorized edition  of  the  play  was  published  in  Paris  at  once ; 
another  at  Brussels  within  a  month  ;  another  at  Amsterdam, 


458  LEFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

during  the  following  winter,  —  all,  as  the  author  insisted,  more 
or  less  incorrect.  The  poet's  own  edition  was  deferred  for 
a  while  ;  but  it  appeared,  at  length,  with  unparalleled  eclat^ 
as  we  shall  see  in  a  moment. 

A  dramatic  author,  of  all  others,  needs  to  have  a  spare  shaft 
in  his  quiver  ;  for  the  fate  of  a  play  is  something  which  the  as- 
tutest  dramatist  has  never  learned  to  foresee.  For  two  years 
Voltaire  had  been  elaborating  a  tragedy  upon  the  ancient 
legend  of  Mdrope,  Queen  of  Messina,  a  story  of  the  classic 
sort,  like  those  treated  by  the  elder  dramatists.  In  "  Merope  " 
he  ventured  to  dispense  with  the  passion  of  love,  and  to  de- 
pend for  the  interest  of  the  drama  upon  maternal  affection. 
He  felt  all  the  difficulty  of  his  scheme. '  It  was  his  opinion 
that  a  reciprocated  passion  does  not  move  the  spectator  of  a 
play,  and  that  therefore  the  love  of  mother  and  son  cannot  be 
as  effective  upon  the  stage  as  in  the  written  story.  "  iTvery 
scene  of  a  tragedy,"  he  wrote  once  to  Father  Porde,  "  must  be 
a  combat^  and  the  great  rock  of  the  arts  is  what  is  called  com- 
monplace." Nevertheless,  he  had  ventured  upon  this  theme, 
and  he  had  now  the  play  in  his  portfolio  complete,  and  ready 
for  the  theatre.  No  sooner  was  "  Mahomet "  shelved  than  he 
drew  forth  this  hidden  treasure,  and  read  it  to  the  comedians. 
It  was  accepted  and  put  in  rehearsal,  the  author  himself  super- 
intending. 

The  anecdote  was  current  at  the  time  that  he  had  much  dif- 
ficulty in  getting  Mademoiselle  Duniesnil,  who  played  Merope, 
to  rise  to  the  height  of  the  terrific  scene  in  the  fourth  act, 
where  the  distracted  mother  reveals  her  son  to  the  usurper  of 
his  throne,  —  a  scene  associated  since  with  the  glor}^  of  the  suc- 
cessive queens  of  the  tragic  stage  of  Paris,  from  Dumesnil  to 
Rachel.  Throwing  herself  between  Egisthe  and  the  guards 
about  to  lead  him  to  execution,  she  cries,  "  Barhare !  il  est 
mon  fils  !  " 

The  young  tragedienne  could  not  satisfy  the  author,  and  he 
gave  the  passage  himself  as  he  thought  it  ought  to  be  de- 
livered. "Why,"  said  she,  "I  should  have  to  have  the  devil 
in  me  to  reach  the  tone  you  wish  !"  "  Exactly  so,  mademoi- 
selle ! "  cried  the  author.  "  It  is  the  devil  you  must  have  in  you, 
to  excel  in  any  of  the  arts." 

The  play  was  represented  February  20,  1743.     Various  cir- 


"MAHOMET"  AND   "  MEROPE."  459 

cumstances  had  inflamed  public  curiosity  respecting  it :  among 
others,  the  new  attempt  of  the  author  to  get  admission  to  the 
French  Academy.  The  death  of  Cardinal  de  Fleury,  January 
29,  1743,  had  created  a  vacancy,  and  there  was  a  ferment  at 
the  very  idea  of  a  Voltaire  succeeding  a  cardinal.  The  harsh 
treatment  of  the  author  and  the  public  in  the  affair  of  "  Ma- 
homet," six  months  before,  must  have  conciliated  many  minds. 
The  theatre,  accordingly,  was  filled  to  repletion  wdth  specta- 
tors, most  of  whom  seem  to  have  been  well  disposed  toward 
an  author  to  whom  they  owed  so  vast  a  fund  of  innocent 
pleasure. 

"  Mdrope,"  the  most  finished  and  evenly  excellent  of  all 
Voltaire's  tragedies,  made  also  the  most  thrilling  and  triumph- 
ant first-night  of  his  whole  experience  as  a  dramatic  author. 
Its  success  with  the  audience  was  everything  that  the  most 
sanguine  and  exacting  writer  could  have  anticipated,  —  a  suc- 
cess without  previous  parallel. 

Readers  familiar  with  the  old  French  drama  are  aware  that  ' 
the  simple  test  formerly  applied  to  tragedy  and  tragic  acting 
was  the  quantity  of  tears  they  drew  from  the  spectators. 
"  M^rope  "  drowned  the  theatre  in  tears,  filled  as  it  was  with 
the  fashionable  world  of  Paris,  who  might  be  thought  hard- 
ened against  theatrical  suffusion.  During  all  the  last  three 
acts,  we  are  told,  the  audience  was  sobbing.  Nor  was  the  play 
quite  wanting  in  those  Voltairean  strokes,  so  much  in  harmony 
with  the  "  sentiment "  of  the  period  :  "  He  who  serves  his 
country  well  has  no  need  of  ancestors  !  "  This,  also  :  "  The 
right  to  command  is  no  longer  an  advantage  transmitted  by 
nature,  like  an  inheritance."  Usually,  however,  the  senti- 
ments were  those  of  the  ancient  time  delineated,  and  the  ef- 
fects legitimate.  Hence  prejudice  was  dissolved,  and  the  tri- 
umph was  not  marred  by  audible  dissent.  Advocate  Barbier, 
a  dull  and  narrow  chronicler,  who  was  so  well  pleased  to  re- 
cord the  forced  withdrawal  of  "  Mahomet,"  assures  us  that  the 
success  of  "  Mdrope  "  was  the  most  striking  ever  known  in 
Paris.  "  The  pit,"  he  says,  "  not  only  applauded  fit  to  break 
everything,  but  asked,  a  thousand  times,  that  Voltaire  should 
appear  upon  the  stage,  that  the  people  might  testify  to  him 
their  joy  and  satisfaction.  Mesdames  de  Boutflers  and  de  Lux- 
embourg did  everything  they  could  to  induce  the  poet  to  com- 


460  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

ply  with  the  public  desire  ;  but  he  vpitlidrew  from  their  box 
with  a  submissive  air,  after  having  kissed  the  hand  of  the 
Duchess  de  Luxembourg."  The  same  Barbier  records  that 
two  of  the  poet's  enemies,  Roy  and  Cahuzac,  came  near  faint- 
ing away,  if  one  could  judge  from  the  mortal  pallor  which 
overspread  their  visages. 

Voltaire  himself  adds  an  incident  of  his  triumph.  After  es- 
caping from  the  box  of  the  two  duchesses,  who  were  his  warm 
partisans,  he  hid  himself  somewhere  in  front  of  the  house. 
Friends  sought  him  out,  and  he  drew  back  into  the  box  of  his 
old  friend,  the  Duchess  de  Villars.  "  The  pit  was  mad,"  wrote 
the  poet  to  one  of  his  friends.  "  They  cried  to  the  duchess  to 
kiss  me,  and  they  made  so  much  noise  that  she  was  obliged  at 
last  to  do  it,  by  the  order  of  her  mother-in-law.  I  have  been 
kissed  publicly,  like  Alain  Chartier  by  the  Princess  Mar- 
guerite of  Scotland ;  but  he  ^vas  asleep,  and  I  was  awake." 

This  was  the  first  time,  as  French  writers  inform  us,  that 
'  an  author  was  called  for  by  an  audience. 

The  actor  Lekain  adds  an  anecdote  of  the  run  of  this  trag- 
edy. During  the  third  or  fourth  representation,  Voltaire  was 
struck  with  a  defect  in  one  of  the  dialogues.  That  very  even- 
ing, as  soon  as  he  had  reached  home,  he  made  the  alterations, 
and  told  his  servant  to  carry  the  packet  at  once  to  the  house 
of  the  actor  who  played  the  part  of  the  usurper,  Polyphonte, 
and  who  was  to  speak  most  of  the  new  lines.  The  valet  ob- 
served that  it  was  past  midnight,  and  that  it  was  impossible 
to  wake  the  actor  at  that  hour.  "  Go,  go,"  said  the  author ; 
"  tyrants  never  sleep  !  " 

But  this  fine  tragedy  did  not  open  to  its  author  the  doors  of 
the  French  Academy.  The  death  of  Cardinal  de  Fleury,  in 
January,  1743,  made  a  chair  vacant,  and  there  was  a  strong 
movement  to  secure  it  for  the  man  whose  absence  from  the 
Academy  was  beginning  to  cast  a  certain  ridicule  upon  it.  He 
desired  the  chair  as  a  protection  against  his  enemies.  "  The 
tranquillity  of  my  life,"  he  wrote,  "  depends  upon  my  getting 
it."  He  desired  it  not  less,  perhaps,  because  his  election  would 
be  a  victory  over  his  enemies,  whom  he  believed  to  be  the  en- 
emies of  man  and  truth.  As  the  king  had  a  veto  upon  the 
election,  it  was  necessary  to  gain,  besides  the  vote  of  the  Acad- 
emy itself,  the   concurrence   of  three  individuals :  the  king's 


"MAHOMET"  AND   "M^ROPE."  461 

mistress,  the  king's  chief  minister,  and  the  king.  It  is  Vol- 
taire himself  who  informs  us  of  his  endeavor  to  secure  this 
concurrence,  and  what  came  of  it. 

"  Several  Academicians  [lie  says]  wished  that  I  should  have  the 
cardinal's  jDlace  in  the  French  Academy.  At  the  king's  supper  table, 
the  question  was  asked  who  was  to  pronounce  the  funeral  oration  of 
the  cardinal  at  the  Academy.  The  king  replied  that  it  was  to  be  me. 
His  mistress,  the  Duchess  de  Chateauroux,  desired  it ;  but  the  Count 
de  Maurepas,  secretary  of  state,  did  not.  He  had  the  mania  to  em- 
broil himself  with  all  the  king's  mistresses,  and  he  did  not  find  it  ad- 
vantageous. 

"  An  old  imbecile,  tutor  to  the  Dauphin,  formerly  a  monk,  and  then 
Bishop  of  Mirepoix,  Boyer  by  name,  undertook,  for  reasons  of  con- 
science, to  second  the  caprice  of  M.  de  Maurepas.  This  Boyer  had 
the  bestowal  of  the  church  benefices  ;  to  him  the  king  abandoned  all 
the  affairs  of  the  clergy  ;  and  he  treated  this  matter  as  a  point  of  ec- 
clesiastical discipline.  He  argued  that  for  a  profane  person  like  my- 
self to  succeed  a  cardinal  would  be  to  offend  God.  Knowing  that  M. 
de  Maurepas  was  urging  him  to  act  in  this  way,  I  called  upon  the 
minister,  and  said  to  him,  '  A  place  in  the  Academy  is  not  a  very  im- 
portant dignity  ;  but,  after  one  has  been  named  for  it,  it  is  painful  to 
be  excluded.  You  are  on  ill  terms  with  Madame  de  Chateauroux, 
whom  the  king  loves,  and  with  the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  who  governs 
her ;  what,  I  pray  you,  has  a  poor  place  in  the  French  Academy  to 
do  with  your  differences  ?  I  conjure  you  to  answer  me  frankly.  In 
case  Madame  de  Chateauroux  carries  the  day  over  the  Bishop  de  Mire- 
poix, will  you  oppose  her?"  He  reflected  a  moment,  and  said  to  me, 
'  Yes  ;  and  I  will  crush  you  !  ' 

*'  The  priest,  in  fact,  triumphed  over  the  mistress ;  and  I  did  not  get 
the  place,  for  which  I  cared  little." 

For  which  he  cared  too  much !  We  have  a  long  letter  of 
his,  written  in  the  heat  of  the  canvass,  to  the  "old  imbecile  " 
Boyer,  Bishop  of  Mirepoix,  which  takes  unjustifiable  liberties 
with  the  truth.  He  seems  to  have  thought  it  right  to  fight  fire 
with  fire,  solemn  humbug  with  solemn  humbug.  He  begins 
by  saying  that  he  had  long  been  persecuted  by  calumny,  which 
he  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  pardoning ;  and,  from  Socra- 
tes to  Descartes,  it  had  been  a  habit  with  envious  rivals,  where 
they  could  not  assail  an  author's  works  or  morals,  to  attack  his 
religion. 

"  Thanks  to  Heaven,"  he  proceeds,  "  my  religion  teaches 


462  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

me  that  it  is  necessary  to  know  how  to  suffer.  The  God  who 
founded  it,  as  soon  as  he  deigned  to  become  man,  was  of  all 
men  the  most  persecuted.  After  such  an  example,  it  is  al- 
most a  crime  to  complain  ;  let  us  correct  oar  faults,  and  sub- 
rait  to  tribulation  as  to  death  !  An  honest  man  can,  in  truth, 
defend  himself  ;  he  even  ought  to  do  so,  not  for  the  vain  sat- 
isfaction of  imposing  silence,  but  in  order  to  render  glory  to 
the  truth.  1  can  say,  then,  before  God  who  hears  me,  that  I 
am  a  good  citizen  and  a  true  Catholic ;  and  this  I  say  because 
I  have  always  been  such  at  heart.  I  have  not  written  one 
page  that  does  not  breathe  humanity,  and  I  have  written  many 
pages  sanctified  by  religion." 

A  true  Catholic  he  might  claim  to  be  ;  it  was  a  harmless 
play  upon  words  ;  but  when  he  descended  to  use  such  an  ex- 
pression as  "the  God  who  founded  it  deigning  to  become 
man,"  he  stepped  over  the  line  that  divides  what  may  from 
what  may  not  be  said  by  such  as  he.  True,  he  deceived  no 
one.  He  neither  expected  nor  designed  to  deceive.  He 
meant  merely  to  deprive  the  hierarchy  of  a  weapon  against 
himself  and  his  order.     But  he  went  too  far. 

He  did  not  get  the  chair,  however.  The  Bishop  of  Mire- 
poix,  as  if  he  really  did  regard  the  forty  chairs  of  the  Academy 
as  forty  benefices,  caused  the  vacant  one  to  be  given  to  a 
bishop  of  very  slight  claim  to  literary  rank.  "  For  a  prelate 
to  succeed  a  prelate,"  said  Voltaire,  "  is  according  to  the  can- 
ons of  the  church."  He  added  that,  as  he  had  not  the  honor 
to  be  a  priest,  he  believed  it  became  him  to  renounce  the 
Academy. 

Four  chairs,  as  it  chanced,  became  vacant  during  this  year, 
1743,  all  of  which  except  one  were  given  to  persons  of  little 
account  in  the  world  of  intellect.  Maupertuis  was  the  excep- 
tion, and  his  distinction  was  not  literary.  One  of  the  seats 
was  given  to  Bignon,  aged  thirty-one  years,  whose  sole  con- 
nection with  literature  was  this  :  he  had  inherited  from  his 
uncle  the  place  of  king's  librarian.  "  I  believe,"  wrote  the 
King  of  Prussia,  touching  one  of  these  exploits  of  JMirepoix, 
"  that  France  is  now  the  only  country  in  Europe  where  asses 
and  idiots  can  make  their  fortune."  The  king  sent  comic 
verses  also  upon  the  "  forty  learned  paroquets,  who  sat  upon 
the  French  Parnassus,  and  dreaded  to  let  in  Voltaire,  lest  his 


"MAHOMET"  AND   "  M^ROPE."  463 

flashing  brilliancy  should  dim  the  trivial  beauty  of  their  twi- 
light." 

It  remained,  however,  that  Voltaire  was  not  of  the  Academy ; 
while  the  old  imbecile  Boyer,  about  the  time  of  the  election, 
added  to  his  other  fat  things  a  benefice  of  eighty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  to  which  the  queen  appended  a  suite  of  apart- 
ments in  her  palace,  all  the  world  expecting  his  good  luck  to 
be  crowned  soon  by  a  cardinal's  hat. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

VOLTAIEE   AND    MADAME     STUDY    HISTORY  TOGETHER. 

When  they  first  went  to  live  at  Cirey,  madame  was  de- 
voted to  mathematics  and  he  was  collecting  material  for  a 
history  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  This  was  bis  serious  work, 
poems  and  dramas  being  his  delight,  his  glory,  his  defense. 
She  objected  to  his  employing  time  upon  history.  "  This 
vixen  \_be(/ueule^,'^  wrote  Madame  de  Grafigny  in  1738,  "does 
not  wish  him  to  finish  his  '  History  of  Louis  XIV.'  She 
keeps  it  under  lock  and  key.  He  was  obliged  to  beg  hard 
before  she  would  promise  to  let  me  have  it.  I  will  bafile  her 
little  game."  ^  She  did  baffle  it  so  far  as  to  get  a  reading  of 
the  manuscript,  from  which  she  used  to  copy  long  passages 
for  the  entertainment  of  her  correspondent. 

Voltaire  confirms  this  anecdote,  but  he  tells  it  as  a  lover 
tells  the  fault  of  a  mistress.  Far  from  styling  her  a  begueule, 
he  speaks  of  her  as  "a  person  rare  in  her  time  and  in  all 
times,"  who  had  conceived  a  disgust  for  history  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  was  usually  written.  "  What  matters  it,"  she 
would  say,  "  to  me,  a  Frenchwoman,  living  here  upon  my 
estate,  that  in  Sweden  Egil  succeeded  King  Haquin,  and  that 
Ottoman  was  the  son  of  Ortogul  ?  I  have  read  with  pleasure 
the  history  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  They  present  to  my 
mind  grand  pictures  which  hold  my  attention.  But  I  have 
not  been  able  to  finish  any  extended  history  of  our  modern 
nations,  in  which  I  see  little  but  confusion  ;  a  crowd  of  trifling 
events,  without  connection  and  without  result ;  a  thousand  bat- 
tles which  decided  nothing,  and  from  which  I  only  learn  what 
weapons  men  used  to  destroy  one  another  with.  I  have  re- 
nounced a  study  equally  tedious  and  immense,  which  over- 
whelms the  mind  without  enlightening  it."  ^ 

1  Voltaire  and  Madame  du  Chatelet,  par  Madame  de  Grafigny,  page  27.  ^Hi 

2  Essai  sur  les  Moeurs.    Pre'face.     19  CEuvres  de  Voltaire,  3. 


VOLTAIRE   AND   MADAME   STUDY   HISTORY.  465 

She  often  spoke  in  this  strain  when  something  in  their 
studies  brought  the  subject  into  conversation.  Sharing  the 
general  ignorance  respecting  the  history  of  France,  she  laid 
the  blame  upon  such  chroniclers  as  the*  Jesuit  Father  Daniel, 
whose  three  ponderous  folios  of  1713  seemed  to  both  of  them 
to  have  been '  written  on  the  principle  of  excluding  every- 
thing of  interest  to  thoughtful  readers,  and  everything  that 
could  warn  or  enlighten  patriotic  statesmen.  "  I  desired," 
she  would  say,  "to  read  the  history  of  France,  Germany, 
Spain,  Italy,  and  found  a  mere  chaos;  a  heap  of  useless  facts, 
for  the  most  part  false  and  ill  digested  ;  barbarous  actions 
under  barbarous  names ;  insipid  romances  ;  no  knowledge  of 
manners,  governments,  laws,  opinions, — not  very  extraordi- 
nary in  a  time  when  there  were  no  opinions  except  monks' 
legends,  and  no  laws  but  those  of  brigandage.  The  Middle 
Ages  !  Nothing  remains  of  those  miserable  times  but  con- 
vents founded  by  the  superstitious,  who  thought  to  ransom 
their  crimes  by  endowing  idleness.  I  cannot  endure  in  Daniel 
those  continual  tales  of  battles,  while  I  look  for  light  upon 
the  states-general,  parliaments,  municipal  laws,  chivalry,  all 
our  usages,  and,  above  all,  the  progress  of  communities  once 
savage  and  to-day  civilized.  I  seek  in  Daniel  the  history  of 
the  great  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  I  find  in  it  that  of  the  Jesuit 
Coton." 

Much  more  to  the  same  effect  he  attributes  to  her,  which 
was  probably  only  his  generous  and  brilliant  interpretation  of 
her  impatient  disgust. 

He  tells  us  how  he  met  her  objections.  "But,"  he  Avould 
say  to  her,  "  if  among  so  much  material,  rude  and  unformed, 
you  should  choose  wherewith  to  construct  an  edifice  for  your 
own  use ;  if,  while  leaving  out  all  the  details  of  warfare,  as 
wearisome  as  they  are  untrue,  all  the  petty  negotiations 
which  have  been  only  useless  knavery,  all  the  particular  ad- 
ventures which  conceal  the  great  events ;  if,  while  preserving 
these  details  which  paint  manners,  you  should  form  out  of 
that  chaos  a  general  and  well-defined  picture  ;  if  you  should 
seek  to  discover  in  events  THE  HISTORY  OF  the  HUMAN  ]\IEND, 
"would  you  believe  you  had  lost  your  time  ?  " 

This  idea,  he  says,  determined  her  to  enter  with  him  upon 
a  course  of  historical  studies  ;  and  it  was  upon  this  general 

VOL.  I.  30 


466  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

scheme  of  tracing  the  progress  of  civilization  and  the  devel- 
opment of  human  intelligence  that  they  proceeded.  At  first, 
he  was  surprised  at  the  little  light  throvrn  upon  his  subject 
by  the  multitude  of .  books  consulted.  "  I  remember,"  he 
adds,  "  that  when  we  began  to  read  Puffendorf,  who  wrote  in 
Stockholm,  and  to  whom  the  archives  of  the  state  were  open, 
we  were  confident  of  learning  from  him  what  was  the  strength 
of  that  country  ;  how  many  inhabitants  it  nourished  ;  how  the 
people  of  the  province  of  Gothland  were  related  to  those  who 
ravaged  the  Roman  Empire  ;  how  in  the  course  of  time  the 
arts  were  introduced  into  Sweden  ;  what  were  its  principal 
laws,  its  wealth,  or  rather  its  poverty.  Not  one  word  of  what 
we  looked  for  did  we  find.  When  we  wished  to  inform  our- 
selves concerning  the  claims  of  the  emperors  upon  Rome,  and 
those  of  the  Popes  against  the  emperors,  we  found  only  confu- 
sion and  obscurity  ;  so  that  upon  all  that  I  wrote  I  put  in  the 
margin,  '  See,  INQUIRE,  DOUBT.'  These  words,  in  large 
letters,  are  still  to  be  seen  in  a  hundred  places  of  my  old 
manuscript  of  the  year  1740.  The  only  thing  which  sus- 
tained me  in  researches  so  ungrateful  was  what  we  met  now 
and  then  relating  to  the  arts  and  sciences.  This  became  our 
principal  object.  It  was  easy  to  perceive  that,  in  our  ages  of 
barbarity  and  ignorance,  which  followed  the  decline  and 
division  of  the  Roman  Empire,  we  received  almost  everything 
from  the  Arabs,  —  astronomy,  chemistry,  medicine,  algebra, 
arithmetic,  geography." 

For  a  quarter  of  a  centurj^,  —  1730  to  1755,  —  with  intervals, 
history  was  his  chief  pursuit,  and  the  result  of  his  labors  fills 
fifteen  of  the  ninety-seven  volumes  of  his  works.     The  "  His- 
tory of  Charles  XII."  was  already  European,  though  he  still 
labored  to  correct  and  improve  it.     The  "  History  of  the  Reign 
of  Louis  XIV."  he  intended  should  follow  that,  until   these 
conversations  with    Madame  du   Chatelet   widened    his   view 
and    enlarged   his    scheme.      For    some    years   now    he   had 
been  gathering  knowledge  for  that  general  'history   of  hur"^" 
progress  which,   beginning  to  appear  in  print   in    1742, 
finally  given  to  the  world  many  years  later,  under  the  titL 
"  Essay  upon   the  Manners   and  Spirit  of  Nations,  and  u 
the   principal    Facts  of   History  from  Charlemagne  to  L( 
XIII."     The  work  as  we  now  have  it,  in  six  volumes,  is 


VOLTAIRE  AND  MADAME   STUDY  HISTORY.  467 

most  voluminous  of  the  productions  of  the  author,  and  it  is, 
perhaps,  the  one  which  has  most  influenced  human  thought  in 
later  times.  One  of  its  pregnant  little  sentences  is,  "  Quicon- 
que pense  fait  penser  "  (whoever  thinks  makes  think).  I  know 
not  if  there  is  any  other  work  published  in  the  last  two  cent- 
uries that  has  suggested  so  much  to  the  men  who  suggest. 
If  it  is  now  obsolete,  it  is  so  for  the  same  reason  that  Adam 
Smith's  "  Wealth  of  Nations  "  is  obsolete,  — because  it  has  ac- 
complished its  purposes.  But  it  remains  an  enduring  record 
of  the  development  the  human  mind  had  reached  when  the 
author  wrote  finis  on  the  last  page  of  his  last  edition  in  1775. 
It  belongs  now  to  the  same  class  of  pi'oductions  as  Pliny's 
"  Natural  History,"  —  that  wondrous  and  fascinating  cyclo- 
pgedia  of  ancient  ignorance.  On  both  works  could  be  in- 
scribed: This  is  what  men  then  Tcnew  and  thought  of  them- 
selves and  their  ivo7'ld. 

But  tliere  is  one  vital  difference  between  the  ancient  and 
the  modern  investigator.  Aristotle  told  his  readers  that 
women  had  more  teeth  than  men,  but  never  thought  of 
counting  to  see  if  the  statement  was  correct,  and  never  ad- 
vised his  disciples  to  do  so.  He  wrote  upon  anatomy,  but, 
as  Mr.  Lewes  shows,  could  never  have  looked  into  a  human 
body.  Pliny  recounts  ten  thousand  prodigies  without  ques- 
tion, satisfied  to  preface  them  with  "  They  sayy  Voltaire 
doubts,  inquires,  denies,  ridicules,  burlesques.  His  Essay,  be- 
sides pointing  out  mistakes,  is  a  contribution  toward  the  nat- 
ural history  of  mistake.  He  pauses  often,  after  burlesquing 
falsehood,  to  dwell  upon  the  laws  governing  the  generation, 
promulgation,  duration,  and  extinction  of  falsehood ;  and 
therefore,  while  falling  very  frequentl}^  into  gross  error,  he  ed- 
ucated his  period  to  surpass  and  supersede  himself.  Gibbon, 
Niebuhr,  Bentham,  Colenso,  Renan,  Franklin,  Jefferson,  Dar- 
win, Buckle,  Motley,  Knight,  Carlyle,  and  others  follow  out 
lines  of  investigation  which  he  suggested,  or  carry  on  inves- 
tigation in  a  spirit  and  method  which  he  made  easy.  Even 
Carlyle's  Dryasdust  was  pierced  by  Voltaire's  airy  shaft,  be- 
fore the  autlior  of  "  Sartor  Resartus  "  finished  him  with  his 
heavy  mace,  and  rolled  him  in  his  own  element  of  dust. 

Take  Niebuhr  for  another  example.  Voltaire  found  Chris- 
tendom still  believing  the  legends  of  Romulus  and  Remus,  the 


468  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Horatii  and  Curatii,  and  all  the  other  Roman  marvels,  just 
as  thoughtlessly  as  they  believed  the  biblical  prodigies.  Be- 
sides laughing  at  this  credulity,  he  showed,  by  amusing  exam- 
ples, the  folly  of  believing  a  story  because  an  ancient  monu- 
ment attestecL  it.  "  What !  because  young  Bacchus  issuing 
from  Jupiter's  thigh  was  celebrated  in  a  temple  at  Rome, 
did  Jupiter  actually  carry  Bacchus  in  his  thigh?  "  After  sev- 
eral questions  of  this  kind  we  have  the  remark,  "  An  idiot 
princess  built  a  chapel  to  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins  ;  the 
incumbent  of  that  chapel  does  not  doubt  that  the  eleven 
thousand  virgins  existed,  and  causes  the  sage  who  does  doubt  it 
to  be  stoned." 

In  Grote,  also,  the  Greek  legends  are  subjected  to  the  same 
process ;  and  Mr.  Grote,  improving  upon  the  Voltairean  method, 
relates  the  beautiful  legends  as  legends,  and  through  them 
gropes  his  way  to  the  point  where  it  is  possible  to  begin  his- 
tory. Dr.  Arnold  pursues  the  same  method  in  his  "  History  of 
Rome." 

Gibbon  is  another  instance.  Both  for  the  method  and  the 
spirit  of  the  "  Decline  and  Fall  "  Gibbon  was  much  indebted 
to  this  Essay  ;  but  especially  for  the  spirit.  Solid  Gibbon 
could  not  catch  "Voltaire's  lightness  and  brilliancy,  or  he,  too, 
would  have  described  Julian  as  a  man  "  who  had  the  misfortune 
to  abandon  the  Christian  religion,  but  did  much  honor  to  the 
rehgion  of  nature,  —  Julian,  the  scandal  of  our  church  and  the 
glory  of  the  Roman  Empire."  Gibbon's  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
chapters  are  wholly  in  the  spirit  of  this  Essay,  though  weight- 
ier in  manner,  and  the  result  of  wider  investigation. 

Bishop  Colenso's  arithmetical  test  applied  to  the  Hebrew 
narratives  was  very  freely  used  by  Voltaire  in  the  Essay,  as 
well  as  in  other  works,  accompanying  the  same  with  a  profusion 
of  exquisite  mockery.  The  line  of  investigation  pursued  by 
M.  Renan  is  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  work,  and  was 
made  possible  by  it. 

The  author  most  indebted  to  Voltaire  was  Henry  Thomas 
Buckle,  who  died  in  attempting,  with  all  the  modern  accumula- 
tions of  knowledge,  to  do  what  Voltaire  essayed  with  the 
scanty  materials  accessible  in  his  day.  Buckle's  "  History  of 
Civilization,"  if  the  gifted  and  devoted  author  had  lived  to 
complete  it,  could  have  been  little  more  than  an  amplification 


VOLTAIRE  AND  MADAME   STUDY  HISTORY.  469 

and  rectification  of  Voltaire's  Essay.  Even  in  the  form,  Buckle 
followed  his  model ;  for  Voltaire  too  has  an  "  Introduction  " 
of  extraordinary  length,  —  nearly  a  volume.  We  are  reminded 
of  the  English  author  in  a  hundred  places  of  Voltaire's  "  Intro- 
duction :  "  as  when  we  read,  for  example,  of  the  controlling  in- 
fluence of  climate  in  developing  civilization  ;  that  civilization 
began  with  leisure,  and  cannot  thrive  without  it ;  tliat  the  im- 
mensities of  nature  limited  the  population  of  America ;  that 
religion  retards  and  knowledge  promotes  development;  that 
the  "  aspects  of  nature,"  when  they  are  terrible,  make  men 
more  superstitious,  and  when  they  are  benign  make  them  less 
so  ;  that  such  works  as  the  pyramids  prove  the  builders  to  have 
been  poor  and  servile ;  that  ignorance  and  fear  are  the  allied 
causes  of  all  that  is  most  deplorable  in  the  history  of  man  ;  and 
that  the  beginning  of  all  progress  is  the  increase  of  knowledge. 

He  anticipates,  also,  those  investigators  who  trace  the  grad- 
ual development  of  such  doctrines  as  the  real  presence  and 
miraculous  inspiration,  as  well  as  the  gradual  construction  of 
such  modes  of  worship  as  the  Catholic  mass.  On  this  line,  he 
displays  all  his  knowledge,  acuteness,  humor,  and  audacity. 
The  infinite  absurdities  of  the  early  church  history,  such  as 
tracing  the  papacy  to  St.  Peter,  who  never  saw  Rome,  give 
him  matter  for  many  entertaining  and  effective  pages.  The 
awful  power  wielded  for  so  many  ages  by  the  Ring  of  small- 
brained,  greedy  Italians  who  governed  the  church  from  Rome, 
and  debauched  both  the  mind  and  morals  of  Europe,  received 
due  recognition  at  his  hands.  He  sums  it  all  up  in  one  sen- 
tence of  terrible  truth:  — 

"  You  will  observe,"  he  says,  as  if  addressing  Madame  du 
Chatelet,  "  that  in  all  the  disputes  which  have  inflamed  Chris- 
tians against  one  another  since  the  birth  of  the  church,  Rome 
has  always  decided  for  the  opinion  that  most  degraded  the 
human  mind  and  most  completely  annihilated  human  reason." 

Having  made  this  powerful  statement,  he  appends  a  jest : 
"  I  speak  here  only  of  history  ;  leaving  out  of  view  the  inspi- 
ration of  the  church  and  its  infallibility,  with  which  history 
has  nothing  to  do."  It  was  this  mingling  of  weighty  truth 
with  amusing  mockery  that  rendered  the  Essay  the  only  his- 
torical work  in  six  volumes  which  readers  for  pleasure  were 
likely  to  read  through. 


r 


470  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

If  the  merits  of  this  work  are  immense,  so  also  are  the  de- 
ductions \A'hich  modei'n  readers  are  obliged  to  make  from  former 
estimates.  Its  defects  are  due  in  part  to  the  impossibility  of 
procuring  at  that  time  the  requisite  knowledge,  and  in  part  to 
the  narrow  limits  of  the  human  mind,  and  to  the  dominating 
antipathies  of  Voltaire.  Instead  of  expanding  upon  these  de- 
fects, I  will  quote  one  passage  which  exhibits  them,  —  a  pas- 
sage which  American  readers  can  judge  better  than  othei's. 
In  his  last  volume,  he  comes  to  speak  of  the  colonies  in  North 
America,  and  he  selects  Pennsylvania  and  New  England, 
among  others,  for  particular  remark.  The  reader  will  observe 
the  extreme,  even  ludicrous,  incorrectness  of  his  information, 
as  well  as  the  influence  of  his  early  liking  for  the  Quakers  and 
his  life-long  aversion  to  Calvinism  :  — 

"  Pennsylvania  [he  says]  was  long  without  soldiers,  and  it  is  only 
of  late  that  England  sent  some  troops  to  defend  them,  when  they  were 
at  war  with  France.  Take  away  that  name  of  Quaker,  cure  them  of 
their  revolting  and  barbarous  habit  of  trembling  when  they  speak  in 
their  religious  meetings,  abolish  some  other^ridiculous  customs,  and  we 
must  agree  that  those  primitive  people  are  of  all  men  worthiest  of  re- 
spect. Their  colony  is  as  flourishing  as  their  morals  have  been  pure. 
Philadelphia,  or  the  City  of  the  Brothers,  their  capital,  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  cities  in  the  universe  ;  and  they  reckon  that,  in  1740, 
there  were  a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  men  in  Pennsylvania.  These 
new  citizens  are  not  all  primitives  or  Quakers  ;  half  of  them  are  Ger- 
mans, Swedes,  and  people  of  other  cotin  tries,  who  form  seventeen  re- 
ligions. The  primitives,  who  govern,  regard  all  those  strangers  as 
their  brothers. 

"  Beyond  that  province,  the  only  one  upon  earth  to  which  peace  has 
fled,  banished  as  it  is  from  every  other  region,  you  come  to  New  Eng- 
land, of  which  Boston,  the  richest  city  of  all  that  coast,  is  the  capital. 

"It  was  inhabited  and  first  governed  by  Puritans,  persecuted  in 
England  hj  Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  who  afterwards  paid  for 
his  persecutions  with  his  head,  and  whose  scaffold  served  to  raise  that 
of  the  king,  Charles  I.  Those  Puritans,  a  species  of  Calvinists,  fled, 
about  the  year  1620,  into  that  country,  since  named  New  England. 
If  the  Episcopalians  pursued  them  in  the  Old  World,  it  was  a  war  of 
tigers  against  bears.  They  carried  to  America  their  sombre  and  fero- 
cious humor,  and  vexed  in  every  way  the  peaceful  Pennsylvanians,  as 
soon  as  those  new-comers  had  established  themselves.  But,  in  1692, 
the  Puritans  were  self-punished  by  the  strangest  epidemic  that  ever 
attacked  the  human  mind. 


VOLTAIRE  AND  MADAME   STUDY  HISTORY.  471 

"  While  Europe  was  beginning  to  escape  from  the  abyss  of  horrible 
superstitions  wherein  ignorance  had  plunged  it  for  so  many  ages,  and 
while  sorcery  and  possession  were,  in  England  and  other  polite  na- 
tions, only  regarded  as  ancient  follies,  at  which  they  blushed,  the  Pu- 
ritans gave  them  new  life  in  America.  A  girl  had  convulsions  in 
1692;  a  preacher  accused  an  old  female  servant;  they  forced  the  old 
woman  to  confess  that  she  was  a  witch.  Half  the  inhabitants  believed 
they  were  possessed  ;  the  other  half  were  accused  of  sorcery  ;  and  the 
people  in  fury  threatened  all  the  judges  with  hanging  if  they  did  not 
hang  the  accused.  For  two  years  nothing  was  seen  but  sorcerers, 
possessed,  and  gibbets ;  and  it  was  the  countrymen  of  Locke  and 
Newton  who  abandoned  themselves  to  that  abominable  delusion.  At 
last  the  malady  ceased ;  the  citizens  of  New  England  recovered  their 
reason,  and  were  astonished  at  their  own  madness.  They  devoted 
themselves  to  commerce  and  agriculture.  The  colony  very  soon  be- 
came the  most  flourishing  of  them  all.  They  reckoned  there,  in  1750, 
about  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  inhabitants,  which  is  ten  times 
more  than  the  estimated  population  of  the  French  establishments.        ___-  ■      ' 

"  From  New  England  you  pass  to  New  York  ;  to  Acadia,  which 
has  become  so  great  a  cause  of  discord ;  to  New  Land,  where  is  carried 
on  the  great  cod  fishery."^ 

This  is  highly  diverting,  and  shows  h'ow  difficult  it  is  for 
a  human  mind  to  get  to  the  limpid  water  at  the  bottom  of 
the  well  where  Truth  resides.  Defective  information  and  a 
biased  mind,  —  these  are  the  reasons  why  each  generation  has  j/ 
to  re-write  for  itself  the  history  of  the  world.  He  attributes 
the  Reformation  to  a  squabble  of  two  rival  orders  of  monks, 
as  to  which  of  them  should  have  the  German  agency  for  tlie 
sale  of  indulgences.  Calvin,  of  course,  he  cordially  and  justly 
detests.  To  Luther  he  is  more  lenient.  He  approves  Luther's 
marriage,  commends  his  good-humor,  and  signalizes  the  fact 
that,  ecclesiastic  and  controversialist  as  he  was,  he  never  com- 
mitted a  cruel  action,  —  not  even  burnt  a  Unitarian.  "De- 
spite the  theologic  fury  that  reigns  in  his  works,  he  was  a 
good  man  at  home,  frank  in  character  and  peaceful  in  social 
intercourse.  His  hatred  of  the  sacramentarians  limited  itself 
to  expelling  them  from  the  universities  and  the  ministry ;  a 
very  moderate  thing  for  the  age  in  which  he  lived."  On  the 
other  hand,  he  did  not  perceive,  living  in  a  Catholic  countr}^ 
that  the  Reformation  was  a  step  toward  the  emancipation  of 

1  6  Essai  sur  les  Moeurs,  124. 


472  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

the  mind  from  the  bondage  of  the  letter.  He  saw  that  the 
writings  of  the  reformers  were  silly  and  savage ;  he  knew  that 
their  demeanor  was  austere  and  forbidding ;  and  he  supposed 
that,  in  removing  the  heavy  yoke  of  the  old  chm'ch,  they  had 
imposed  one  more  crushing  still. 

"  If,"  he  remarks,  "  the  reformers  condemned  celibacy,  if 
they  opened  the  doors  of  the  convents,  it  was  to  change  human 
society  itself  into  convents.  Sports  and  plays  were  forbidden 
among  them.  Geneva,  for  a  hundred  years,  did  not  allow  a 
musical  instrument  within  its  borders.  They  proscribed  au- 
ricular confession,  but  they  wished  public  penitence  ;  and  so 
it  was  established  in  Switzerland,  Scotland,  Geneva.  We  suc- 
ceed little  with  men  when  we  propose  something  easy  and  sim- 
ple.    The  strictest  school-master  is  the  one  most  run  after." 

In  relating  the  horrors  of  religion  in  every  age,  he  still 
blends  pathos  an4  fun  ;  lamenting  the  woes  unutterable  that 
zealots  have  inflicted  for  religion's  sake,  and  j^et  never  allow- 
ing his  readers  to  forget  the  trivial  and  ridiculous  nature  of 
the  usages  and  doctrines  for  which  they  slew  and  tortured. 
He  sometimes  makes  the  mistake  that  we  are  all  apt  to  make 
in  commenting  upon  those  scenes  of  blood  and  devastation,  in 
Spain,  in  Holland,  in  Florida,  in  France,  attributing  them  too 
much  to  individuals,  and  too  little  to  man.  People  were  dis- 
mal in  Geneva  and  cruel  in  Spain,  not  because  Calvin  was  dys- 
peptic and  Philip  II.  ambitious,  but  because  man  was  still 
weak,  ignorant,  and  timorous.  He,  too,  felt  this  when,  after 
relating  the  appalling  massacres  that  followed  the  surrender 
of  Haarlem,  he  adds  only,  "  The  pen  drops  from  the  hands 
when  we  see  how  men  are  wont  to  deal  with  men."  He  felt 
it,  also,  and  gave  it  memorable  expression,  when  he  wrote, 
"It  is  characteristic  of  bai'barians  to  believe  the  divinity  ma- 
levolent.    Men  make  God  in  their  own  image." 

Such  were  the  studies  that  occupied  him  during  these  years 
of  wandering  and  disturbance ;  cheered  occasionally  by  the 
warm  commendations  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  to  whom  he  sent 
the  portions  as  they  were  completed.  Frederic  praised  this 
work  without  reserve.  He  pronounced  it  the  ornament  of  the 
age,  sufficient  of  itself  to  show  how  much  superior  modern 
genius  was  to  ancient.  For  a  wonder,  he  did  not  object  to  its 
audacities.    "  Cicero,"  said  the  king,  "  could  not  conceive  how 


II 


VOLTAIRE  AND   MADAME   STUDY   HISTORY.  473 

the  augurs  could  look  one  another  in  the  face  without  laugh- 
ing ;  you  do  more :  you  expose  the  absurdities  and  furies  of 
the  clergy  to  the  view  of  all  the  world.''  Again,  on  reading 
Voltaire's  account  of  the  crusades,  the  king  broke  into  poetry, 
congratulating  himself  upon  being  Voltaire's  contemporary, 
to  be  instructed  by  him,  instead  of  being  a  crusader,  to  be 
pierced  by  his  satire.  "Go  on  with  this  excellent  work,"  he 
added  ;  "  go  on  with  it  for  the  love  of  truth  ;  go  on  for  the 
happiness  of  men.  It  is  a  king  who  exhorts  you  to  write  the 
follies  of  kings."  Frederic  was,  indeed,  so  roused  by  it  that 
he  resumed  his  own  literary  labors,  wrote  a  poem  and  a  com- 
edy, and  began  to  compose  those  Memoirs  of  his  house  and 
time  which  occupy  six  of  the  thirty  volumes  of  his  works. 

The  "  History  of  the  Age  of  Louis  XIV."  was  not  neg- 
lected, meanwhile.  The  author's  familiar  intercourse  with  the 
men  and  women  whose  parents  and  connections  had  lived  at 
the  old  court  supplied  him  with  documents  and  memoirs.  To 
the  polite  society  of  his  time  no  other  work  of  his  could  have 
been  so  fascinating  as  this  melange  of  anecdote,  epigram,  and 
history.  He  "  stands  by  his  order^"  Half  his  first  volume 
consists  of  a  catalogue,  with  brief  explanations,  of  the  princi- 
pal writers  of  the  time  of  the  late  king,  among  wdiom,  wdth 
his  usual  tenacious  loyalty,  he  includes  "  Chatelefc  (Gabrielle- 
Emilie  Le  Tonnelier  de  Breteuil,  Marquise  du)  "  who  was  nine 
years  of  age  when  Louis  XIV.  died.  She  was  dead  herself 
when  he  added  that,  "  of  all  the  women  who  had  illustrated 
France,  she  was  the  one  who  had  possessed  most  of  genuine 
esprit^  and  had  least  affected  the  hel-esprity  The  History 
is  so  much  occupied  with  matters  appertaining  to  the  mind 
and  the  taste  that  it  reminds  us  of  the  amiable  Philadelphian 
who  proposed  the  "  History  of  the  United  States  with  the 
Wars  omitted." 

He  could  not,  for  many  reasons,  speak  of  the  late  king  with 
perfect  candor.  He  w^as  himself  somewhat  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  general  illusion  with  regard  to  Louis  XIV. ;  and 
the  more  because  the  redeeming  glory  of  his  reign  was  the 
encouragement  given  to  art  and  literature.  Nor  liad  the  co- 
lossal egotism  of  the  monarch  been  clearly  revealed  to  the 
world,  though  it  had  brought  France  close  to  the  verge  of 
ruin,  and  left  to  his  successor  the  chaos  of  1715.  The  Mem- 
oirs of  Saint  Simon,  of   Madame  de   Maintenon,  and  many 


474  LIFE   or   VOLTAIRE. 

others  enable  us  to  know  that  court  better  than  any  individ- 
ual could  have  known  it  who  spent  a  life  in  attendance.  Vol- 
taire knew  more  than  he  could  tell,  and  he  "  manages  "  the 
dangerous  points  of  his  theme  with  all  his  own  audacious  pru- 
dence. The  anecdotes  are  a  valuable  part  of  his  work,  and 
these  will  make  it  always  a  source  of  information.  "  Anec- 
dotes," he  says,  "  are  an  inclosed  field  in  which  one  gleans 
after  the  vast  harvest  of  history."  Most  of  those  which  he  has 
recorded  have  become  part  of  the  common  stock  of  entertain- 
ment and  illustration,  used  by  each  generation  as  it  passes, 
and  left  intact  for  the  next.  The  spirit  of  the  work  is  Vol- 
tairean  enough.  In  other  words,  it  is  a  solicitation,  in  three 
agreeable  volumes,  to  the  world  of  readers,  to  think  with  their 
own  minds,  to  believe  only  what  is  in  harmony  with  tlie 
known  nature  of  things,  and,  having  done  this  themselves,  to 
concede  the  same  right  to  all  men  without  reserve.  The  Rev- 
ocation of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  he  adduced  as  a  case  in  point. 
How  often  during  his  long  life  he  returned  to  this  theme!  He 
reminded  his  countrymen,  on  every  convenient  opportunity, 
that  the  priests  who  ruled  the  ignorant  mind  of  Louis  XIV. 
drove  from  the  kingdom  eight  hundred  thousand  people,  moral, 
skillful,  frugal,  loyal,  who  carried  away  with  them  a  thousand 
millions  of  francs,  and  planted  in  Holland,  England,  Germany, 
America,  several  branches  of  manufacture  of  which  till  then 
France  had  enjoyed  a  monopoly.  He  told  his  countrymen 
of  the  ffreat  colonies  of  Frenchmen  that  he  had  himself  seen 
in  Berlin,  London,  Switzerland,  Holland,  —  the  descendants  of 
those  good  people  who  had  followed  their  pastors  into  exile, 
rather  than  renounce  their  right  to  believe.  On  this  point  he 
was  called  in  question,  and  met  his  opponent  with  accounts  of 
these  foreign  settlements  as  visited  and  inspected  by  himself. 

He  concluded  the  Histor}^  with  a  narrative  of  the  persistent 
endeavor  on  the  part  of  the  Jesuits,  under  Louis  XIV.,  to 
convert  the  Chinese.  The  missionaries  sent  home  a  pious  lie 
to  inflame  the  zeal  and  swell  the  offerings  of  the  people  of 
France.  Four  crosses  had  appeared,  they  said,  on  the  clouds 
near  the  horizon,  as  if  to  sanction  the  sublime  enterprise.  Vol- 
taire ended  his  History  thus  :  "  But  if  God  had  wished  that 
China  should  become  Christian,  would  he  have  contented  him- 
self with  putting  some  crosses  in  the  air  ?  Would  he  not  have 
put  them  in  the  heart  of  the  Chinese  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

AMATEUR  DIPLOMATIST  AGAIN. 

These  elevated  studies  were  never  so  frequently  or  so  long 
interrupted  as  during  the  next  two  or  three  years,  —  a  period  of 
his  life  to  which  he  always  looked  back  with  regret.  When  he 
"was  an  old  man,  the  Ahh6  Duvernet  asked  him  if  it  was  true 
that  he  had  once  been  a  courtier.  He  replied  that  it  was  all 
too  true.  "In  1744  and  1745,"  he  added,  "  I  was  one  ;  I  cor- 
rected myself  in  1746  ;  and  I  repented  in  1747."  He  under- 
stated the  misfortune.  From  1743  to  1753  he  passed  a  great 
part  of  his  time  at  or  near  the  courts  of  his  three  kings,  Louis, 
Frederic,  and  Stanislas,  snatching  his  own  proper  work  from 
tumultuous  distraction.  "  It  was  not  the  period  of  my  glory," 
said  he,  "  if  I  ever  had  any."  ^ 

There  was  a  grand  wedding  at  Paris,  in  the  family  of  the 
Du  Chatelets,  in  the  spring  of  1743.  Madame  du  Chatelet 
gave  her  daughter  to  a  Neapolitan,  the  Duke  de  Montenei'o- 
Caraff.  It  appears  to  have  been  a  veritable  marriage  of  the 
good  old  time :  the  bride  a  plump  damsel  of  seventeen,  fresh 
from  the  convent ;  the  bridegroom  much  older,  a  foreigner, 
as  Voltaire  notes,  "  with  a  big  nose,  a  meagre  visage,  and  a 
hollow  chest."  But  the  King  of  France  signed  the  contract; 
the  King  of  Prussia  was  formally  notified ;  and  all  was  done  in 
the  rules.  The  mother  had  had  other  wishes  for  this  daugh- 
ter ;  at  least,  she  said  so  in  her  letter  announcing  the  marriage 
to  the  King  of  Prussia.  "  If  77it/  vows  had  been  heard,"  she 
wrote,  "it  had  been  at  your  court  that  she  had  passed  her 
life ;  and  that  would  have  been  a  happiness  of  which  I  should 
have  been  jealous."  Could  the  young  Baron  de  Kaiserling 
have  aspired  ?  The  young  lady  had  been  brought  home  from 
her  convent  to  take  part  in  a  comedy  performed  for  his  amuse- 
ment at  Cirey. 

1  Voltaire  to  Duvernet,  February,  1776. 


476  LT^E    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Weio-htier  matters  called  Voltaire  from  his  books  in  June, 
1743,  and  detained  him  long.  Europe  was  still  embroiled. 
Frederic,  who  had  broken  the  peace  in  1740,  had  withdrawn 
from  the  strife,  with  Silesia  his  own.  He  was  at  peace  ;  but 
France  was  waging  disastrous,  discreditable  war  against  Aus- 
tria and  Hanover,  a  war  without  well-defined  object,  and  wo- 
fully  ill  conducted.  Again  all  eyes  were  fixed  in  hope  or  dread 
upon  Prussia,  whose  alliance  could  turn  the  scale  and  give  to 
either  belligerent  decisive  preponderance.  It  was  Frederic 
himself  who  seemed  to  invite  Voltaire  to  try  once  more  his 
skill  in  the  diplomatic  art.  "  I  now  ask  you,"  wrote  Frederic, 
"  for  a  new  explanation  ;  for,  behold,  the  cardinal  is  dead  and 
affairs  are  going  a  different  way.  It  were  good  to  know  what 
are  the  channels  which  it  is  necessary  to  employ." 

The  Duke  de  Richelieu  was  then  "first  gentleman  of  the 
king's  bed-chamber,"  an  office  which  he  fulfilled  by  supplying 
that  sumptuous  apartment  with  occupants  agreeable  to  the 
king,  and  useful  to  himself.  The  Duchess  de  Chateauroux  was 
one  of  them.  Petticoat  II.  she  was  styled  by  a  King  of  Prus- 
sia, indifferent  to  women.  Richelieu  conceived  the  scheme  of 
sendingr  Voltaire  to  Berlin  on  a  secret  mission  to  sound  the 
King  of  Prussia,  to  warn  him  of  the  danger  to  himself  of  allow- 
ing Maria  Theresa  to  recover  power  and  prestige  through  the 
aid  of  the  King  of  Hanover,  who  was  also  King  of  England, 
and  to  win  him  over  to  an  alliance  with  France ;  or,  as  Vol- 
taire expressed  it,  "  to  ask  him  if  he  would  be  so  good  as  to 
lend  us  a  hundred  thousand  men,  for  the  nonce,  in  order  the 
better  to  assure  his  Silesia."  The  mistress  seconded,  the  min- 
istry adopted,  the  king  sanctioned  the  project,  and  he  prepared 
to  depart. 

A  pretext  being  necessary  to  account  for  his  presence  at 
Berlin,  he  suggested  his  recent  public  quarrel  with  the  ancient 
Bishop  of  Mirepoix,  which  also  the  king  approved.  The  new 
envoy  wrote  to  Frederic  that  he  was  about  to  seek  refuge  at 
his  court  from  the  persecutions  of  "  that  bigoted  old  monk." 
Boyer  was  accustomed  to  sign  himself,  officially,  the  "  anc. 
Bishop  of  Mirepoix."  The  abbreviation  ajic.  in  the  bad  hand- 
writing of  the  bishop  bore  a  resemblance  to  the  French  word 
ane,  which  means  ass.  Voltaire  and  Frederic  styled  him 
habitually  Vane   de   Mirepoix,   and  made    merry  at   his   ex- 


I 


AMATEUR   DIPLOMATIST   AGAIN.  477 

pense.  Voltaire  took  care  that  the  bishop  should  see  some  of 
the  king's  letters  in  which  liberties  of  this  kind  were  taken 
with  his  name  and  character.  Boyer  complained  to  the  King 
of  France  that  Voltaire  was  giving  him  out  in  foreign  courts 
as  a  fool.  Louis  replied,  as  Voltaire  reports,  that  "  it  was  a 
thing  agreed  upon,  and  that  he  need  not  concern  himself  about 
it."  Thus,  he  adds,  he  had  the  pleasure,  at  once,  of  aveng- 
ing the  indignity  of  his  exclusion  from  the  Academy,  of  tak- 
ing an  agreeable  journey,  and  of  having  an  opportunity  to 
serve  his  king  ;  all,  too,  at  the  king's  expense,  for  he  was 
authorized  to  spend  as  much  money  as  he  wished. 

But  how  was  he  to  get  away  from  Madame  du  Chatelet, 
■who  would  make  "  a  horrible  outcry  "  at  this  appearance  of 
desertion?  It  was  agreed  that  she  should  be  let  into  the 
secret,  and  that  the  letters  between  Voltaire  and  the  ministry 
should  pass  through  her  hands.  She  made  the  outcry,  not- 
withstanding; but  she  made  it  with  discretion  and  with  his- 
trionic effects.  Voltaire  took  leave  of  her  about  June  15, 1743, 
to  be  gone  six  weeks  ;  and  she  performed  her  part  so  well  that 
the  gossiping  Barbier  was  deceived  by  it.  July  1st,  he  made 
this  entry  in  his  diary :  "  Madame  du  Chatelet  is  going  im- 
mediately to  join  Voltaire  at  Brussels.  It  is  remarked  that 
the  government  ought  to  conciliate  this  poet,  or  else  assure  it- 
self of  him.  He  is  extremely  dissatisfied,  extremely  angry,  and 
in  great  favor  with  the  King  of  Prussia.  That  woman  passed 
a  part  of  Saturday  last  in  crying,  because  she  had  not  received 
on  Friday  any  letters  from  that  Adonis."  ^  From  this  we  may 
infer  that  the  purpose  of  the  journey  was  not  suspected. 

Before  leaving  Paris  he  procured  from  his  old  school-fellow, 
the  Marquis  d'Argenson,  minister  of  war,  a  contract  for  his 
relations,  Marchand  and  son,  for  making  ten  thousand  army 
coats.  "  All  they  ask,"  said  he,  "  is  to  clothe  and  feed  the 
defenders  of  France."  Marchand  lived  to  be  a  farmer-cren- 
eral.  For  another  nephew,  badly  wounded  in  a  recent  action, 
he  solicited  "  that  cross  of  St.  Louis,  for  which  men  have 
their  arms  and  legs  broken."  For  Madame  du  Chatelet,  also, 
he  obtained  something,  not  stated,  from  the  same  minister. 
"  Permit  me,  Monseigneur,"  he  writes  to  D'Argenson  from 
the  Hague,  "  to  thank  you  tenderly  for  the  favor  accorded  to 

^  8  Journal  de  Barbier,  309. 


478  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Madame  du  Cliatelet,  and  for  the  manner  of  it."  He  was  in 
great  vogue  ;  for  the  first  news  he  had  to  remark  upon  in  his 
letters  to  the  minister  was  of  the  famous  victory  won  over  the 
French  at  Dettingen  by  George  II. 's  English  and  Hanoverian 
troops,  —  that  army  of  Uncle  Toby's  which  swore  so  terribly 
in  Flanders.  Nothing  was  too  good  for  the  envoy  who  might 
win  for  France  at  such  a  crisis  so  powerful  an  ally  as  Frederic 
II.,  King  of  Pj-ussia.  The  envoy  improved  his  hour  of  sun- 
shine. 

From  the  light  tone  in  which  he  wrote  of  his  mission,  years 
after,  we  might  suppose  that  it  was  all  a  jest  at  the  expense 
of  Vane  de  Mirepoix.  His  letters  of  the  time,  however,  show 
that  he  was  a  vigilant,  laborious,  and  able  amateur  in  the  dip- 
lomatic art,  with  the  usual  fault  of  the  amateur,  excess  of 
zeal.  He  sent  home  an  abundance  of  documents,  maps,  plans, 
and  information,  supplied  by  and  through  Frederic's  agents 
and  ministers.  He  dispatched  couriers ;  he  sent  unsigned  let- 
ters ;  he  wound  himself  up  in  impenetrable  secrecy,  and  be- 
haved, in  all  respects,  in  the  approved  diplomatic  style.  But 
he  did  more  than  this.  Living  for  six  weeks  in  Prussia,  in  the 
royal  palaces,  in  daily  and  nightly  intimacy  with  the  king,  he 
had  with  him  long  and  serious  conversations,  in  the  course  of 
which  Frederic  spoke  with  apparent  candor  and  fullness  of  his 
intentions  and  desires.  Voltaire  reports  one  of  these  conver- 
sations to  M.  Amelot,  French  minister  for  foreign  affairs.  It 
occurred  September  3,  1743,  in  Voltaire's  own  room,  after  a 
dinner  given  by  the  king  to  M.  de  Valori,  the  French  ambas- 
sador at  Berlin.  The  gayety  and  ease  of  a  Paris  table  marked 
this  repast,  and,  when  it  was  over,  the  king  came  to  Voltaire's 
apartment,  and  they  talked  alone  together  until  the  evening 
concert  was  announced. 

The  King.  — "I  was  very  glad  yesterday  to  invite  the  envoy  of 
France  alone  of  all  the  ministers,  not  only  to  give  him  marks  of  con- 
sideration,  but  to  disquiet  those  who  would  be  displeased  at  the  pref- 
erence." 

Voltaire.  —  "  The  envoy  of  France  would  be  much  more  content 
if  your  majesty  should  send  some  troops  to  Wesel  or  to  Magdeburg." 

The  King.  —  "  But  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  Will  the  King 
of  France  ever  forgive  my  having  made  a  separate  peace  ?  " 

Voltaire.  —  "  Sire,  great  kings  know  not  vengeance  ;  all  yields  to 


AMATEUE  DIPLOMATIST   AGAIN.  479 

the  interest  of  the  state.     You  know  if  the  interest  of  your  majesty 
and  that  of  France  is  not  to  be  forever  united." 

The  King.  —  "  How  can  I  believe  that  it  is  the  intention  of  France 
to  bind  herself  firmly  to  me  ?  I  know  that  your  envoy  at  Mayence 
makes  insinuations  against  my  interests,  and  that  a  peace  is  proposed 
with  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  involving  the  reestablishment  of  the  em- 
peror and  an  indemnification  at  my  expense." 

Voltaire.  —  "1  dare  believe  that  this  accusation  is  an  artifice  of 
the  Austrians,  a  practice  too  common  with  them.  Did  they  not  calum- 
niate you  in  the  same  manner  last  May  ?  Did  they  not  publish  in 
Holland  that  you  had  made  an  offer  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary  to  join 
her  against  France  ?  " 

The  King  (lowering  his  eyes).  —  "  I  swear  to  you  that  nothing  is 
more  false.  What  could  I  gain  by  it  ?  Such  a  falsehood  destroys 
itself." 

Voltaire.  —  "  Very  well,  sire  ;  why,  then,  not  openly  unite  with 
France  and  the  emperor  against  the  common  enemy,  who  hates  you 
and  calumniates  you  both  equally  ?  What  ally  can  you  have  but 
France?" 

Thk  King.  —  "You  are  right.  You  know,  also,  that  I  am  endeav- 
oring to  serve  France ;  you  are  aware  of  what  I  am  doing  in  Holland. 
But  I  cannot  act  openly  until  I  am  sure  of  being  seconded  by  the  em- 
pire, to  which  end  I  am  now  laboring ;  and  this  is  the  real  object  of 
the  journey  I  shall  make  to  Bayreuth  in  eight  or  ten  days.  I  wish  to 
be  assured  that  some,  at  least,  of  the  princes  of  the  empire  —  such  as 
Palatine,  Hesse,  Wurtemberg,  Cologne,  and  Stettin  —  would  furnish  a 
contingent  to  the  emperor." 

Voltaire.  —  "  Sire,  ask  their  signature  only,  and  begin  by  making 
your  brave  Prussians  take  the  field." 

The  King.  —  "I  do  not  wish  to  recommence  the  war  ;  but  I  con- 
fess I  should  be  flattered  to  be  the  pacificator  of  the  empire,  and  to 
humiliate  a  little  the  King  of  England,  who  wishes  to  give  law  to 
Germany." 

Voltaire.  —  "  You  can  do  it.  Only  this  glory  is  wanting  to  you, 
and  I  hope  that  France  will  owe  peace  to  her  own  arms  and  your  ne- 
gotiations. The  vigor  she  will  show  will  doubtless  increase  your  good- 
will. Allow  me  to  ask  what  you  would  do  if  the  King  of  France 
should  demand  succor  from  you  by  virtue  of  your  treaty  with  him  ?  " 

The  King.  —  "I  should  be  obliged  to  excuse  myself,  and  to  reply 
that  the  treaty  was  annulled  by  what  I  have  since  done  with  regard  to 
the  Queen  of  Hungary.  At  present  I  can  serve  the  emperor  and  the 
King  of  France  only  by  negotiating." 

Voltaire.  —  "  Negotiate,  then,  sire,  as  fortunately  as  you  have 


480  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

fought ;  and  suffer  me  to  say  to  you,  what  all  the  earth  says,  that  the 
Queen  of  Hungary  only  awaits  the  favorable  moment  to  attack  Si- 
lesia." 

The  King.  —  "  My  four  fortresses  will  be  finished  before  Austria 
can  send  against  me  two  regiments.  I  have  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand combatants  ;  I  shall  have  then  two  hundred  thousand.  I  flatter 
myself  that  my  system  of  military  discipline,  which  I  consider  the  best 
in  Europe,  will  always  triumph  over  the  Hungarian  troops.  If  the 
Queen  of  Hungary  attempts  to  recover  Silesia,  she  will  force  me  to 
take  Bohemia  from  her.  I  fear  nothing  from  Russia ;  the  Czarina  is 
forever  devoted  to  me  since  the  last  conspiracy  fomented  by  Botta 
[envoy  of  Maria  Theresa]  and  by  the  English.  I  advise  her  to  send 
the  young  Ivan  and  his  mother  to  Siberia,  as  well  as  my  brotlier-in- 
law,  with  whom  I  have  always  been  dissatisfied,  and  who  has  always 
been  governed  by  the  Austrians."  ^ 

At  this  point  the  king  was  notified  that  the  musicians 
were  ready  to  begin  the  concert.  Voltaire  followed  him  to 
the  music-room,  and  the  conversation  ended ;  to  be  renewed, 
however,  on  several  succeeding  days.  The  king  could  scarcely 
have  been  more  explicit  or  more  frank  ;  and,  probably,  an  ex- 
perienced diplomatist  would  not  have  pressed  him  farther. 
But  Voltaire  had  private  as  well  as  public  reasons  for  making 
of  this  embassy  an  unquestionable  and  striking  success.  He 
desired  something  in  the  king's  handwriting  to  take  home 
with  him ;  and,  to  this  end,  he  wrote  the  well-known  series 
of  questions,  leaving  a  wide  margin  on  the  paper  for  the  king's 
written  comments.  Frederic,  obliged  to  disappoint  the  per- 
tinacious envoy,  appended  ridiculous  or  evasive  answers.  "  Is 
it  not  clear,"  asked  Voltaire,  "  that  France  displays  vigor  and 
wisdom  ?  "  The  king  wrote  in  the  margin,  "  I  admire  the 
wisdom  of  France,  but  God  keep  me  from  ever  imitating 
it."  Voltaire  alluded  to  the  burning  desire  of  the  Austrians 
to  attack  Silesia.  Frederic  wrote,  "  They  will  be  received, 
birihi,  in  the  style  of  Barbary,  mon  ami !  "  The  king  would 
not  commit  himself  upon  paper.  In  conversation  he  contin- 
ued to  discuss  the  situation  in  a  manner  which  his  subsequent 
conduct  showed  to  be  sincere.  Their  final  conversation 
turned  upon  King  George  II.  of  England,  whom  Frederic  did 
not  love.     The  king's  last  word  was  this:  — 

1  Voltaire  to  Amelot,  September  3,  1743. 


AMATEUR  DIPLOMATIST  AGAIN.  481 

"  George  is  Frederic's  uncle ;  but  George  is  not  King  of 
Prussia.  Let  France  declare  war  against  England,  and  I 
march !  "  ^ 

To  oblige  the  envoy,  the  king  wrote  him  a  long  letter  to 
shou\  eulogizing  France,  complimenting  her  king,  and  com- 
mending Voltaire  as  a  loyal  subject  and  admirable  citizen, 
Frederic  still  longed  to  possess  him  ;  and  it  is  evident  from 
scattered  intimations  that  the  envoy  endeavored  to  turn  this 
passionate  desire  to  account.  I  think  he  said  in  substance  to 
the  King  of  Prussia,  "  Let  me  be  the  means  of  bringing  suc- 
cor to  France,  make  ray  mission  brilliantly  successful,  and 
what  can  I  not  ask  of  the  king,  mo7i  maitre  ?  Say,  for  ex- 
ample, that  I  should  wish  the  obliging  Marquis  du  Chatelet 
appointed  ambassador  at  your  majesty's  court,  with  one  Vol- 
taire as  guest  of  the  family,  resident  at  Berlin  for  many 
years,  and  perhaps  always ! "  Frederic,  on  his  part,  re- 
newed all  his  former  offers.  "  France,"  he  wrote,  a  few  days 
before  Voltaire's  departure,  "  has  passed  hitherto  for  the  asy- 
lum of  unfortunate  kings ;  I  wish  my  capital  to  become  the 
temple  of  great  men.  Come,  my  dear  Voltaire,  and  dictate 
all  that  can  be  agreeable  to  you.  I  wish  to  give  you  pleasure ; 
and  to  oblige  a  man  it  is  necessary  to  enter  into  his  way 
of  thinking.  Choose  a  suite  of  apartments  or  a  house ;  rule 
whatever  is  necessary  to  you  for  the  agreeableness  and  the 
luxury  of  life;  make  your  condition  such  as  your  happiness 
requires ;  it  shall  be  mine  to  provide  for  the  rest.  You  shall 
be  always  free  and  entirely  master  of  your  destiny." 

In  his  mania  to  have  him,  the  king  descended  to  a  trick 
which,  doubtless,  he  regarded  as  a  kind  of  harmless  practical 
joke,  but  which  few  readers  will  be  able  to  see  in  that  light.  Vol- 
taire, as  we  have  observed,  caused  some  of  Frederic's  letters  to 
fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Bishop  of  Mirepoix.  Before  leaving 
Prussia,  he  discovered  that  the  king  was  taking  precisely  the 
same  liberty  with  certain  letters  of  his,  in  which  the  "  mitred 
donkey  of  Mirepoix  "  was  spoken  of  with  infinite  contempt. 
"  Here,"  wrote  Frederic,  August  17,  1743,  to  his  favorite, 
Count  de  Rottembourg,  then  visiting  Paris,  — "  you  have  a 
morsel  of  a  letter  of  Voltaire's,  which  I  beg  you  will  get  de- 
livered to  the  Bishop  of  Mirepoix  in  some  roundabout  way, 

1  Memoires.     2  CEuvres  dc  Voltaire,  56. 
VOL.  I.  31 


482  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

without  either  you  or  me  appearing  in  the  business.  My  in- 
tention is  to  embroil  Voltaire  so  thoroughly  in  France  that 
there  will  remain  no  part  for  him  to  take  but  to  come  to 
me."  ^     The  morsel  inclosed  read  thus  :  — 

"  This  ugly  Mirepoix  is  as  hard,  as  fanatical,  as  imperious, 
as  the  Cardinal  de  Fleury  was  suave,  accommodating,  polite. 
Oh,  how  he  will  make  that  good  man  regretted  !  " 

Ten  days  later,  the  king  sent  to  Count  de  Rottembourg 
some  verses  of  Voltaire's  upon  Mirepoix,  and  charged  him  to 
get  them  secretly  delivered  to  the  bishop  ;  for,  added  the  king, 
"  I  wish  to  embroil  Voltaire  forever  with  Fi-ance ;  it  would 
be  the  means  of  having  him  at  Berlin."  These  verses,  be- 
sides heaping  contempt  upon  Mirepoix,  contained  a  line  that 
seemed  to  speak  of  Louis  XV.  as  "  the  most  stupid  of  kings." 
This  was  going  far,  even  for  a  monarch.  Voltaire,  who  had 
partisans  or  friends  everywhere,  was  promptly  informed  of 
this  procedure,  and  did  not  approve  it.  He  was  extremely 
indignant.  If  he  had  amused  himself  a  little  by  putting 
some  jocular  paragraphs  of  Frederic  where  the  bishop  could 
see  them,  he  did  not  consider  the  game  equal  between  a  king 
with  two  hundred  thousand  men  at  his  command  and  a  poet 
who  was  obliged  always  to  serve  and  charm  his  country  at 
the  risk  of  a  dungeon.  Strange  to  relate,  Frederic  was  as- 
tonished  that  he  should  take  the  flattering  treason  amiss. 
"  Voltaire,"  he  wrote  to  Rottembourg,  "  has  unearthed,  I 
know  not  how,  the  little  treason  we  have  played  him.  He 
is  strangely  piqued  at  it.     He  will  get  over  it,  I  hope." 

He  pouted  for  a  while,  it  appears,  and  then  forgave  the  little 
treason.  Luckily,  it  had  been  a  thing  agreed  upon  that  Mire- 
poix was  to  be  "  written  down  an  ass  ;  "  and  thus  he  was 
able  to  make  it  up  with  his  own  court.  Nor  was  he  ill  pleased 
to  let  the  French  ministry  know  how  intensely  he  was  desired 
at  the  Prussian  court.  "  Not  being  able,"  he  wrote  to  M.  Am- 
elot,  "  to  gain  me  otherwise,  the  king  thought  to  acquire  me  by 
destroying  me  in  France  ;  but  I  swear  to  you  that  I  would 
rather  live  in  a  town  of  Switzerland  than  enjoy  at  this  price 
the  perilous  favor  of  a  man  capable  of  putting  treason  into 
friendship  itself." 

But  he  was  not  quite  so  angry  then  as  these  words  imply. 

1  25  CEuvres  de  Frederic  le  Grand,  523,  525,  527,  528. 


II 


AMATEUR   DIPLOMATIST  AGAIN.  483 

He  brought  his  Prussian  journey  to  a  happ}^  close  by  accom- 
panying the  king  to  the  court  of  his  sister,  the  Margravine  of 
Bayreuth,  where  he  passed  fourteen  days  of  sumptuous  and 
elegant  festivity.  Operas,  comedies,  concerts,  hunts,  suppers, 
filled  up  the  hours.  The  king's  sisters,  Ulrique  and  Amelia, 
as  well  as  Wilhelmiiia,  were  there,  all  sharing  their  brother's 
enthusiasm  for  the  guest,  all  owing  part  of  their  mental  devel- 
opment to  him.  Voltaire  had  never  been  so  feted  and  caressed. 
He  left  behind  him  at  Bayreuth,  as  a  memorial  of  those  en- 
chanting days,  three  little  poems,  unequaled  in  their  kind  in 
all  the  literature  of  the  drawling-room.  These  trifles  are  so 
exquisite  that  the  plainest  prose  of  them  leaves  a  pleasing  im- 
pression upon  the  mind :  — 

"  To  the  Princess  Ulrique  :  Often  a  little  truth  mingles  with 
the  grossest  falsehood.  Last  night,  iti  the  error  of  a  dream,  to 
the  rank  of  kings  I  was  mounted.  I  loved  you,  princess,  and 
dared  tell  you  so.  The  gods,  at  my  waking,  did  not  take  all 
from  me.     I  have  lost  only  my  empire." 

"To  the  Princesses  Ulrique  and  Amelia:  If  Paris  should 
come  upon  the  earth  to  judge  between  your  beautiful  eyes,  he 
would  cut  the  apple  in  two,  and  not  cause  any  war." 

"  To  the  Princesses  Ulrique,  Amelia,  and  Wilhelmina :  Par- 
don, charming  Ulrique  !  pardon,  beautiful  Amelia !  I  had 
thought  to  love  only  you  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  to  serve 
only  under  your  laws ;  but,  at  length,  I  hear  and  I  see  that 
adorable  sister  upon  whose  steps  Love  follows.  Ah,  it  is  not 
wronging  the  Three  Graces  to  love  all  three  of  them !  " 

The  Princess  Ulrique  ventured  to  send  him  a  reply  in  verse 
and  prose.  She,  too,  had  had  a  dream  :  "  Apollo,  with  majes- 
tic port,  gentle  and  gracious,  accompanied  by  his  Nine  Sisters," 
appeared  before  her,  to  rebuke  her  for  replying  to  such  verses 
only  in  dull  prose.  The  god  dictated  ;  she  wrote :  Eis  dream 
had  been  a  mere  delusion ;  it  was  Emilie  who  had  appeared  to 
him,  not  Ulrique ;  and  so  he  would  discover  as  soon  as  he  had 
returned  to  Brussels.  What  a  difference  between  Ulrique  and 
them  !  They  had  placed  themselves  on  the  heights  of  Helicon  ; 
they  had  made  themselves  famous  ;  but  she  owed  all  to  her  an- 
cestors. Tn  this  tone  Voltaire  and  the  princess  continued  to 
correspond  until  she  went  away  to  be  Queen  of  Sweden. 

After  four  months'  absence,  he  set  his  face  toward  home, 


484  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

bearing  with  him  many  evidences  of  the  favor  in  which  he  was 
held ;  among  others,  a  gold  box  from  the  king,  in  which  were 
several  medals  in  gold,  representing  Frederic  giving  peace  to 
his  subjects.  Long  as  he  had  been  absent,  still  he  lingered 
several  days  at  the  court  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  writing 
few  letters  and  short  to  that  Emilie  of  his,  who  was  chafing 
and  anxious  at  Brussels.  She  wrote  to  D'Argental  that  she 
no  longer  knew  the  man  upon  whom  her  happiness  depended. 
His  letters  and  his  behavior  were  equally  strange  to  her.  "  He 
is  absolutely  drunk ;  he  spends  twelve  days  in  going  from 
Berlin  to  the  Hague ;  he  is  mad  for  Germany  and  courts ;  he 
stayed  fifteen  days  at  Baja-euth ;  he  has  passed  fifteen  days 
without  writing  to  me  ;  and  for  two  months  past  I  have  learned 
his  designs  from  ambassadors  and  gazettes.  Such  conduct 
would,  perhaps,  detach  any  one  but  me."  But  the  truant  re- 
turned at  length,  and  all  was  forgiven.  He  had  had  a  painful 
journey,  he  said,  but  his  return  overwhelmed  him  with  happi- 
ness ;  he  had  never  found  his  Emilie  so  amiable  and  so  far 
above  the  King  of  Prussia. 

Soon  they  went  to  Paris  together ;  he  to  give  details  of  his 
mission,  and  to  receive,  perhaps,  the  glory  and  reward  which 
kings  bestow  upon  subjects  returning  from  hard  and  not  un- 
successful service.  But  he  did  not  receive  either  glory  or  re- 
ward. The  Duchess  de  Chateauroux  was  offended  because  the 
negotiation  had  not  passed  through  her  hands ;  she  had  taken 
a  dislike  to  the  person  of  M.  Amelot,  minister  for  foreign  af- 
fairs, because  he  stammered ;  she  detested  him,  also,  because 
he  was  controlled  by  M.  de  Maurepas,  her  mortal  foe ;  and, 
when  Voltaire  reached  Paris,  she  was  in  full  intrigue  to  expel 
the  odious  stammerer.  A  few  weeks  later,  M.  Amelot  was 
dismissed,  and  Voltaire  was  "  enveloped  in  his  disfavor." 

After  a  month's  stay  at  Paris,  madame  and  himself  returned 
to  Brussels,  where  they  resumed  their  lawsuit  and  their  stud- 
ies, aftei'seven  months'  interruption.  On  the  opening  of  spring 
they  were  at  Cirey,  its  new  gardens  all  blooming  with  the 
beauty  which  their  taste  had  imagined.  Few  visitors  enlivened 
this  retreat,  it  is  true,  but  they  thought,  perhaps,  that  they 
were  now  settled  for  a  long  period  of  generous  toil  and  elegant 
pleasure.  President  Henault  looked  in  upon  them  again  in 
the  spring  of  1744,  and  found  them  immersed  in  intellectual 


AMATEUR  DIPLOMATIST  AGAIN.  485 

employments,  with  madame's  new  tutor  in  mathematics  their 
only  companion.  "If,"  wrote  H(^nault,  in  his  Memoirs,  "one 
should  make  a  fancy  picture  of  a  delicious  retreat,  an  asylum 
of  peace,  of  union,  of  calm  of  soul,  of  amenity,  of  talents,  of 
mutual  esteem,  of  the  attractions  of  philosophy  joined  to  the 
charms  of  poetry,  he  would  have  painted  Cirey :  a  building 
simple  and  elegant  from  the  ground-floor  up  ;  cabinets  filled 
with  the  apparatus  of  mechanics  and  chemistry ;  Voltaire  in 
bed,  beginning,  continuing,  finishing  works  of  all  kinds." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

VOLTAIEE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE. 

After  this  interesting  experience  of  court  life  in  a  foreign 
country,  where  the  king  was  king,  he  was  to  become  a  court- 
ier at  Versailles,  where  the  man  who  governed  the  king's  mis- 
tress was  king. 

Again  it  was  the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  First  Gentleman  of 
the  Chamber,  who  broke  in  upon  the  elevated  pursuits  of 
Cirey,  and  called  him  to  lower  tasks  and  less  congenial  scenes. 
The  royal  children  were  coming  of  age.  The  marriage  of  the 
Dauphin  to  the  Infanta  of  Spain,  long  ago  agreed  upon,  was 
soon  to  be  celebrated,  the  prince  having  passed  his  sixteenth 
year,  and  it  devolved  upon  the  First  Gentleman  to  arrange  the 
marriage  festival.  This  was  no  light  task ;  for  Louis  XIV. 
had  accustomed  France  to  the  most  elaborate  and  magnificent 
fetes.  Not  content  with  such  splendors  as  mere  wealth  can 
everywhere  procure,  that  gorgeous  monarch  loved  to  enlist  all 
the  arts  and  all  the  talents,  exhibiting  to  his  guests  divertise- 
ments  written  by  Moliere,  performed  with  original  music, 
and  with  scenery  painted  by  artists.  Several  of  his  festivals 
have  to  this  day  a  certain  celebrity  in  France,  and  have  left 
traces  still  noticeable.  There  is  a  public  ground  in  Paris, 
opposite  the  Tuileries,  which  is  called  the  Place  of  the  Carou- 
sal. It  was  so  named  because  it  was  the  scene  of  one  of  this 
king's  fetes,  in  which  five  bodies  of  horsemen,  or  quadrilles, 
as  they  were  called,  took  part.  One  of  these  bodies  were 
dressed  and  equipped  as  Roman  knights,  and  they  were  led  by 
the  king  in  person.  His  brother,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  com- 
manded a  body  of  Persian  cavalry ;  the  Prince  of  Conde,  a 
splendid  band  of  Turks ;  the  Duke  of  Guise,  a  company  of 
Peruvian  horse ;  and  a  son  of  Cond^  shone  at  the  head  of 
East  Indian  horsemen  in  gorgeous  array.  Imagine  these  five 
bodies  of  horse  galloping  and  manoeuvring,  entering  and  de- 


I 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COUET  OF  FRAl^CE.      487 

parting,  charging  and  retreating,  like  circus  riders  in  an  ex- 
tremely large  and  splendid  tent ;  and  in  the  midst,  on  a  lofty 
platform,  three  queens  in  splendid  robes,  the  mother  of  Louis, 
the  wife  of  Louis,  and  the  widow  of  Charles  L,  who  lived  and 
died  the  guest  of  the  King  of  France.  There  were  grand 
doings  at  this  festival.  There  were  tournaments,  games  of 
skill  and  daring,  stately  processions,  concerts,  plays,  and  buf- 
fooneries, with  a  ball  at  the  close. 

That  pageant,  splendid  as  it  was,  was  "  effaced,"  as  the 
French  say,  by  one  which  the  king  gave  only  two  years  after 
at  Versailles,  probably  the  most  sumptuous  thing  of  the  kind 
ever  seen.  On  the  5th  of  May,  the  most  beautiful  month  of 
the  year  in  France,  the  king  rode  out  to  Versailles  with  all 
his  court,  which  then  included  six  hundred  persons,  each  at- 
tended by  retainers  and  servants,  the  whole  numbering  more 
than  two  thousand  individuals  and  as  many  horses.  The  fes- 
tival was  to  last  seven  days,  and  the  king  defrayed  the  ex- 
penses of  every  one  of  his  guests.  In  the  park  and  gardens 
of  Versailles  miracles  had  been  wrought.  Theatres,  amphi- 
theatres, porticoes,  pavilions,  seemed  to  have  sprung  into  being 
at  the  waving  of  an  enchanter's  wand.  On  the  first  day  there 
was  a  kind  of  review,  or  march-past,  of  all  who  were  to  take 
part  in  the  games  and  tourneys.  Under  a  triumphal  arch  the 
three  queens  appeai'cd  again,  resplendent,  each  attended  by 
one  hundred  ladies,  who  were  attired  in  the  brilliant  manner 
of  the  period  ;  past  these  marched  heralds  pages,  squires,  car- 
rying the  devices  and  shields  of  the  knights,  as  well  as  ban- 
ners upon  which  verses  were  written  in  letters  of  gold.  The 
knights  followed,  in  burnished  armor  and  bright  plumes,  the 
king  at  their  head  in  the  character  of  Roger,  a  famous  knight 
of  old.  All  the  crown  diamonds  glittered  upon  his  coat  and 
the  trappings  of  his  horse.  Both  he  and  the  animal  sparkled 
and  blazed  in  the  May  sun  ;  and  we  can  well  imagine  that  a 
handsome  young  man,  riding  with  perfect  grace  the  most 
beautiful  of  horses,  mus't  have  been  a  very  pretty  spectacle, 
despite  so  much  glitter.  When  this  procession  of  squires  and 
knights  had  passed  and  made  their  obeisance  to  the  queens, 
a  huge  car  followed,  eighteen  feet  high,  fifteen  wide,  and 
twenty-four  long,  representing  the  Car  of  the  Sun, — an  im- 
mense vehicle,   all   gilding   and   splendor.      Behind    this    car 


488  .LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

came  groups  exhibiting  the  Four  Ages,  of  Gold,  of  Silver,  of 
Brass,  and  of  Iron  ;  and  these  were  followed  by  representa- 
tions of  the  celestiiil  signs,  the  seasons,  and  the  hours.  All 
this,  the  spectators  inform  us,  was  admirably  performed  to  the 
sound  of  beautiful  music  ;  and,  now  and  then,  persons  would 
step  from  the  procession,  and  the  music  would  cease,  while  they 
recited  poems,  written  for  the  occasion,  before  the  queens. 
Imagine  shepherds,  blacksmiths,  farmers,  harvesters,  vine-dress- 
ers, fawns,  dryads.  Pans,  Dianas,  Apollos,  marching  by,  and 
representing  the  various  scenes  of  life  and  industry ! 

The  procession  ends  at  last.  Night  falls.  With  wondrous 
rapidity  four  thousand  great  torches  are  lighted  in  an  inclos- 
ure  fitted  up  as  a  banqueting  place.  Two  hundred  of  the  per- 
sons who  had  figured  in  the  procession  now  bring  in  various 
articles  of  food ;  the  seasons,  the  vine-dressers,  the  shepherds, 
the  harvesters,  each  bear  the  food  appropriate  to  them  ;  while 
Pan  and  Diana  advance  upon  a  moving  mountain,  and  alight 
to  superintend  the  distribution  of  the  exquisite  food  which  had 
been  brought  in.  Behind  the  tables  was  an  orchestra  of  mu- 
sicians, and  when  the  feast  was  done  the  pleasures  of  the  day 
ended  with  a  ball.  For  a  whole  week  the  festival  continued, 
the  sports  varied  eYery  day.  There  were  tourneys,  pageants, 
hunts,  shooting  at  a  mark,  and  spearing  the  ring.  Four  times 
the  king  gained  the  prize,  and  offered  it  to  be  competed  for 
again.  There  were  a  great  number  of  court  fools  at  this  fes- 
tival, as  we  still  find  clowns  at  a  circus.  Indeed,  when  we 
attend  a  liberally  appointed  circus  we  are  looking  upon  a  show 
resembling  in  many  particulars  the  grand  doings  in  the  park 
of  Versailles  when  Louis  XIV.  entertained  his  court  and  fig- 
ured as  chief  of  the  riders. 

Most  of  the  performances  could  have  been  procured  by 
money  lavishly  spent ;  and,  in  order  to  reproduce  them,  the 
Duke  de  Richelieu  needed  little  assistance  from  the  arts.  But 
there  were  items  of  the  programme  which  redeemed  the  char- 
acter of.  this  festival,  and  caused  it  to  be  remembered  by  the 
susceptible  people  of  France  with  pride.  Moliere  composed 
for  it  a  kind  of  show  play,  called  the  ''  Princesse  d"Elide,"  a 
vehicle  for  music,  ballet,  and  costume,  with  here  and  there  a 
spice  of  his  comic  talent.  A  farce  of  his,  the  "  Forced  Mar- 
riage," was  also  played  ;  and  the  first  three  acts  of  his  "  Tar- 


II 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.       489 

tuffe,"  the  greatest  effort  of  French  dramatic  genius  in  that 
age,  if  not  in  any  age,  were  performed  for  the  first  time. 
There  was  only  one  man  in  France  who  could  help  a  "  First 
Gentleman  "  to  features  of  the  coming  fete  at  all  resembling 
these  ;  and  to  him  that  First  Gentleman  applied.  Voltaire 
entered  into  the  scheme  with  zeal.  In  April,  1744,  Cirey  all 
blooming  with  flowers  and  verdure,  he  began  to  write  his  fes- 
tive divertisement,  the  "  Frincesse  de  Navarre,"  the  hero  of 
which  was  a  kind  of  Spanish  Duke  de  Richelieu.  "  I  am  mak- 
ing," he  wrote,  "  a  divertisement  for  a  Dauphin  and  Dauphiu- 
ess  whom  I  shall  not  divert ;  but  I  wish  to  produce  some- 
thing pretty,  gay,  tender,  worthy  of  the  Duke  de  Richelieu, 
director  of  the  fete.'''  It  was  his  chief  summer  work,  and  he 
labored  at  it  with  an  assiduity  that  would  have  sufficed  to  pro- 
duce three  new  tragedies.  He  very  happily  laid  the  scene  of 
his  play  in  an  ancient  chateau  close  to  the  borders  of  the 
Spanish  province  of  Navarre,  —  an  expedient  which  enabled 
him  to  group  upon  the  stage  both  Frenchmen  and  Spaniards, 
with  their  effective  contrasts  of  costume,  and  to  present  to  the 
Spanish  bride  and  her  court  pleasing  traits  of  their  own  coun- 
trymen. The  poet  and  the  First  Gentleman  arranged  the 
processions,  tlie  ballets,  the  tableaux,  the  fete  within  a  fete  ; 
exchanging  many  long  letters,  and  pondering  many  devices. 
There  is  good  comic  writing  in  this  piece ;  and  there  are  two 
characters,  a  rustic  Spanish  baron  and  his  extremely  simple- 
minded  daughter,  that  are  worthy  of  a  better  kind  of  play  and 
occasion. 

This  was  the  year  in  which  the  King  of  France  first  braved 
the  hardships  of  the  field,  accompanied  by  his  mistress,  the 
Duchess  de  Chateauroux,  and  attended  by  that  surprising  ret- 
inue of  courtiers  and  comedians,  often  described.  I  need  not 
pause  to  relate  how,  after  being  present  at  warlike  operations, 
he  fell  dangerously  sick  of  a  fever  ;  how  the  mistress  and  the 
First  Gentleman  took  possession  of  the  king's  quarters,  and 
barred  the  door  against  priests  and  princes ;  how,  as  the  king 
grew  worse,  the  alarmed  mistress  tried  to  come  to  a  compro- 
mise with  the  royal  confessor,  the  keeper  of  the  king's  con- 
science, saying  to  him,  in  substance,  "  Let  me  go  away  without 
scandal,  that  is,  without  being  sent  away,  and  I  will  quietly 
let  yoa  into  the  king's  chamber ; "   how  the  cautious  Jesuit 


490  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIEE. 

contrived  to  get  through  a  long  interview  without  saying  either 
yes  or  no  to  this  proposal ;  how,  at  length,  when  the  king 
seemed  near  his  end,  she  was  terrified  into  yielding,  and  the 
king,  fearing  to  lose  his  absolution  and  join  some  of  the  bad 
kings  in  the  other  world,  sent  her  a  positive  command  to  de- 
part, as  if  she  had  been,  what  the  priest  officially  styled  her,  a 
concubine  ;  how  the  king,  having  recovered,  humbly  courted 
her  return,  calling  upon  her  in  person  at  her  house ;  and  how, 
while  she  affected  to  hesitate,  and  dictated  terms  of  direst  ven- 
geance, even  the  exile  of  every  priest,  courtier,  and  minister 
who  had  taken  the  least  part  in  her  disgrace,  she  died  of  min- 
gled rage,  mortification,  and  triumph,  leaving  both  the  king 
and  the  First  Gentleman  perfectly  consolable.  Upon  all  that 
we  need  not  here  dilate  ;  it  is  related  with  modesty  and  force 
by  the  brothers  De  Goncourt  in  their  work  upon  the  "  Mis- 
tresses of  Louis  XV.,"  a  precious  series  of  illustrations  of  the 
system  of  personal  government. 

The  impressive  fact  is  that  none  of  these  things  impaired 
the  spell  of  the  king's  divinity.  During  the  crisis  of  his  fever 
all  France  seemed  panic-stricken  ;  and  when  he  recovered,  the 
manifestations  of  joy  were  such  as  to  astonish  the  king  him- 
self, inured  as  he  was  to  every  form  and  degree  of  adulation 
from  his  childhood.  "  What  have  I  done,"  cried  the  poor 
man,  "  to  be  loved  so  ?  "  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  received 
his  name  of  Louis  the  Well-Beloved,  by  which  it  was  pre- 
sumed that  he  would  go  to  posterity,  along  with  Louis  the 
Fat  and  Philip  the  Long,  titles  so  helpful  to  childish  memory. 
On  his  return  to  Paris  in  September,  1744,  "  crowned  with 
victory"  and  recovered  from  the  borders  of  the  tomb,  the 
fetes  were  of  such  magnitude  and  splendor  that  Madame  du 
Chatelet  came  to  Paris  to  witness  them,  with  her  poet  in  her 
train.  He  brought  his  "  Princesse  de  Navarre  "  with  him, 
however,  and  was  soon  in  daily  consultation  with  composer, 
ministers.  First  Gentleman,  and  friends  as  to  the  resources  of 
an  extemporized  theatre. 

A  curious  street  adventure  befell  madarae  and  himself  on 
the  night  of  the  grand  fire-works,  which  they  rode  in  from  a 
chateau  near  the  city  to  witness.  They  found  all  the  world 
in  the  streets.  Voltaire  gave  an  account  of  their  night's  ex- 
ploits to  the  President  Renault,  whose  visit  to  Cirey  they  now 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.      491 

returned  in  an  unusual  manner  :  "  There  were  two  thousand 
backing  carriages  in  three  files ;  there  were  the  outcries  of  two 
or  three  hundred  thousand  men,  scattered  amono;  those  car- 
riages ;  there  were  drunkards,  fights  with  fists,  streams  of  wine 
and  tallow  flowing  upon  the  people,  a  mounted  police  to  aug- 
ment the  embroglio  ;  and,  by  way  of  climax  to  our  delights, 
his  Royal  Highness  [Duke  de  Chartres]  was  returning  peace- 
fully to  the  Palais-Royal  with  his  great  carriages,  his  guards, 
his  pages  ;  and  all  this  unable  either  to  go  back  or  advance 
until  three  in  the  morning.  I  was  with  Madame  du  Chatelet. 
Her  coachman,  who  had  never  before  been  in  Paris,  was  about 
boldly  to  break  her  upon  the  wheel.  Covered  as  she  was  with 
diamonds,  she  alighted,  calling  upon  me  to  follow,  got  through 
the  crowd  without  being  either  plundered  or  hustled,  entered 
your  house  [Rue  St.  Honore],  sent  for  some  roast  chicken  at 
the  corner  restaurant,  and  drank  your  health  very  pleasantly 
in  that  house  to  which  every  one  wishes  to  see  you  return." 

It  was  a  busy  time  with  him  during  the  next  six  months, 
arranging  the  details  of  the  fete,  with  Rameau  the  composer, 
with  scene-painters,  with  the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  and  the  Mar- 
quis d'Argenson.  We  see  him  cutting  down  eight  verses  to 
four,  and  swelling  four  verses  to  eight,  to  meet  the  exigencies 
of  the  music.  We  see  him  deep  in  converse  with  Richelieu 
upon  the  complicated  scenes  of  his  play, — suggesting,  alter- 
ing, abandoning,  curtailing  numberless  devices  of  the  stage- 


manager. 


On  this  occasion,  also,  as  before  going  to  Prussia,  he  took 
care  to  secure  some  compensation  in  advance.  It  was  not  his 
intention  to  play  courtier  for  nothing.  He  was  resolved  to 
improve  this  opportunity,  and  to  endeavor  so  to  strengthen 
himself  at  court  that  henceforth  he  could  sleep  in  peace  at  his 
abode,  in  Paris,  or  in  the  country,  fearless  of  the  Ane  of  Mire- 
poix.  To  get  the  dull,  shy,  sensualized  king  on  his  side  was  a 
material  point  with  him.  He  wrote  a  poem  on  the  "  Events 
of  the  Year"  (1744),  in  which  the  exploits  of  the  king  upon 
the  tented  field  and  his  joyful  recovery  from  sickness  were 
celebrated  in  the  true  laureate  style.  He  also  took  measures 
to  have  this  poem  shown  to  the  king  by  the  Cardinal  de  Ten- 
cin,  "in  a  moment  of  good-humor."  He  made  known  to  two 
of  his  friends  in  the  ministry,  M.  Orry  and  the  Marquis  d'Ar- 


492  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

genson,  precisely  what  he  wanted.  He  wanted  an  office  which 
would  protect  him  against  confessors,  bishops,  and  Desfon- 
taines,  —  say,  for  example,  gentleman-iu-ordinary  of  the  king's 
chamber,  a  chai-ge  of  trifling  emolument,  less  duty,  and  great 
distinction.  He  would  then  be  a  member  of  the  king's  house- 
hold, not  to  be  molested  on  slight  pretext  by  a  Mirepoix,  nor 
to  be  calumniated  with  impunity  by  a  journalist.  But  since 
such  offices  were  seldom  vacant  he  asked  to  be  appointed  at 
once  writer  of  history  (Jdstoriographe)  to  the  king,  at  a  nomi- 
nal salary  of  four  hundred  francs  a  year.  M.  Orry  thought 
this  very  modest  and  suitable ;  the  Marquis  d'Argenson  was 
of  the  same  opinion  ;  and  both  engaged  to  aid  in  accomplish- 
ing his  wishes.  If  he  could  add  to  these  posts  an  armchair 
in  the  French  Academy,  which  in  good  time  he  also  meant 
to  try  for,  he  thought  he  might  pursue  his  natural  vocation 
in  his  native  land  without  serious  and  constant  apprehen- 
sion. 

But,  first,  the  fete  !  That  must  succeed  as  a  preliminary. 
In  January,  1745,  he  took  up  his  abode  at  Versailles  to  super- 
intend the  rehearsals,  conscious  of  the  incongruity  of  his  em- 
ployment. "  I  am  here,"  he  wrote  to  Thieriot,  "  braving  For- 
tune in  her  own  temple ;  at  Versailles  I  play  a  part  similar 
to  that  of  an  atheist  in  a  church."  To  Cideville,  also  :  "  Do 
you  not  pity  a  poor  devil  who  at  fifty  is  a  king's  buffoon,  and 
who  is  more  embarrassed  with  musicians,  decorators,  actors, 
singers,  and  dancers  than  the  eight  or  nine  electors  will  soon 
be  in  making  a  German  Caesar  ?  I  rush  from  Paris  to  Ver- 
sailles ;  I  compose  verses  in  the  post-chaise  ;  I  have  to  praise 
the  king  highly,  Madame  the  Dauphiness  delicately,  the  royal 
family  sweetly.  I  must  satisfy  the  court,  and  not  displease  the 
city." 

In  the  very  crisis  of  the  long  preparation,  February  18, 
1745,  seven  days  before  the  festival,  Voltaire's  Jansenist  of  a 
brother,  the  "  Abbd  Arouet,"  Receiver-of-Fees  to  the  Chamber 
of  Accounts,  died  at  Paris,  aged  two  months  less  than  sixty 
years.  The  brothers,  as  we  know,  had  been  long  ago  es- 
tranged, and  had  rarely  met  of  late  years.  The  parish  regis- 
ter, still  accessible,  attests  that  the  funeral  was  attended,  Feb- 
ruary 19th,  by  "  Frangois-Marie  Arouet  de  Voltaire,  bowgeois 
of  Paris;"  not  yet   gentleman-in-ordinary.     The  receiver-of- 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.       493 

fees  died,  as  he  had  lived,  in  what  was  called  the  odor  of  sanc- 
tity ;  presenting  to  the  view  of  young  and  old  that  painful 
caricature  of  goodness  which  has  for  some  centuries,  in  more 
than  one  country,  made  virtue  more  difficult  than  it  naturally 
is.  From  his  will,  which  also  exists,  we  learn  that,  if  he  did  not 
disinherit  his  brother,  he  came  as  near  it  as  a  French  brother 
could  without  doing  violence  to  the  sentiment  and  custom  of 
his  country.  After  giving  legacies  to  cousins,  friends,  and  serv- 
ants, he  leaves  one  half  the  bulk  of  his  estate  to  his  nephew 
and  nieces,  and  the  other  half  to  his  brother  ;  but  with  a  dif- 
ference. Voltaire  was  to  enjoy  his  half  "  in  usufruct  only," 
the  capital  to  fall  finally  "  to  his  nephew  and  nieces  aforesaid." 
He  look  care,  also,  to  prevent  his  brother  from  gaining  any- 
thing by  the  decease  of  any  of  the  heirs.  As  the  receiver-of- 
fees,  besides  bequeathing  his  valuable  office  to  a  relative,  died 
worth,  as  French  investigators  compute,  about  two  hundred 
thousand  francs,  Voltaire  received  an  increase  to  his  income  of 
perhaps  six  thousand  francs  a  year.^ 

From  his  brother's  grave,  without  waiting  to  learn  these 
particulai-s,  he  was  obliged  to  go  post-haste  to  Versailles,  to- 
wards which  all  eyes  were  now  directed.  The  marriage  festi- 
val, a  tumult  of  all  the  splendors,  began  February  23,  1745. 
The  "  Princess  of  Navarre  "  succeeded  to  admiration.  A  vast 
and  beautiful  edifice  had  risen,  at  the  command  of  Richelieu,  in 
the  horse-training  ground  near  the  palace  of  Versailles,  so  con- 
structed that  it  could  serve  as  a  theatre  on  one  evening  and  a 
ball-room  on  the  next,  both  equally  magnificent  and  complete. 
The  stage  was  fifty-six  feet  in  depth  ;  and,  as  the  boxes  were 
so  arranged  as  to  exhibit  the  audience  to  itself  in  the  most  ef- 
fective and  brilliant  manner,  the  words  spoken  on  the  stage 
could  not  be  always  perfectly  heard.  But  this  was  not  so  im- 
portant, since  the  play  was  chiefly  designed  as  a  vehicle  for 
music,  dancing,  costume,  and  picture.  At  six  in  the  evening 
the  king  entered  and  took  the  seat  prepared  for  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  theatre,  followed,  in  due  order,  by  his  family  and 
court,  arrayed  in  the  gorgeous  fashion  of  the  time.  These 
placed  themselves  around  him,  a  splendid  group,  in  the  midst 
of  a  great  theatre  filled  with  the  nobility  of  the  kingdom,  all 
sumptuous  and  glittering.  The  author  of  the  play  about  to 
1  Voltaire  a  Cirey,  page  438.    Menage  et  Finances  de  Voltaire,  page  44. 


494  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

be  performed  was  himself  thrilled  by  the  picturesque  magnifi- 
cence of  the  spectacle  which  the  audience  jDresented,  and  he 
regretted  that  a  greater  number  of  the  people  of  France  could 
not  have  been  present  to  behold  the  superb  array  of  princes 
and  princesses,  noble  lords  and  ladies,  adorned  by  master- 
pieces of  decorative  art,  which  the  beauty  of  the  ladies  "  ef- 
faced." He  wished  that  more  people  could  observe  the  noble 
and  becoming  joy  that  filled  every  heart  and  beamed  in  all 
those  lovely  eyes. 

But,  since  nothing  can  be  perfect,  not  even  in  France,  this 
most  superb  audience  was  so  much  elated  with  itself  that  it 
could  not  stop  talking.  There  was  a  buzz  and  hum  of  conver- 
sation, reminding  the  anxious  author  of  a  hive  of  bees  hum- 
ming and  buzzing  around  the  queen.  The  curtain  rose ;  but 
still  they  talked.  The  play,  however,  being  a  melange  of 
poetry,  song,  music,  ballet,  and  dialogue,  everything  was  en- 
joyed except  the  good  verses,  here  and  there,  which  could 
scarcely  be  caught  by  distant  ears.  Every  talent  in  such  a 
piece  meets  its  due  of  approval  except  that  of  the  poet,  who 
imagines  the  whole  before  any  part  of  it  exists.  At  half  past 
nine  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  closing  scene ;  when  the  audi- 
ence, retiring  to  the  grounds  without,  found  the  entire  facade 
of  the  palace  and  adjacent  structures  illuminated.  All  were 
enchanted.  The  king  himself,  the  hardest  man  in  Europe  to 
amuse,  was  so  well  pleased  that  he  ordered  the  play  to  be  re- 
peated on  another  evening  of  the  festival.  "  The  king  is 
grateful  to  me,"  wrote  Voltaire  to  his  guardian  angel,  D'Ar- 
gental.  "  The  Mirepoix  cannot  harm  me.  What  more  do  I 
need?" 

He  was  exhausted  with  the  long  strain  upon  his  nervous 
system.  "  So  tired  am  I,"  he  wrote  to  Thieriot,  "  that  I  have 
neither  hands,  feet,  nor  head,  and  write  to  you  by  the  hand 
of  another."  But  he  soon  had  the  consolation  of  receiving 
the  king's  promise  of  the  next  vacancy  among  the  gentlemen- 
in-ordinary,  and  his  immediate  appointment  as  writer  of  his- 
tory at  an  annual  salary  of  two  thousand  francs.  Thus  the 
year  consumed  in  these  courtly  toils,  he  thought,  was  not  with- 
out its  compensations.  Nor  did  he  relax  his  vigilance,  nor 
give  ministers  peace,  until  these  ofiices  were  securely  his  by 
letters  patent  and  the  king's  signature.     His  brevet  of  histo- 


J 


VOLTAIRE   AT   THE   COURT   OF  FRANCE.  495 

riographe  was  signed  b}^  the  king  April  1st,  and  tlie  salary- 
began  January  1,  1745.     The  document  ran  thus  :  — 

"To-day,  April  1,  1745.  The  king  being  at  Versailles,  taking  into 
consideration  that  tlie  recompenses  which  his  majesty  accords  to  those 
who  devote  themselves  to  the  study  of  letters  contribute  to  their 
progress  by  the  emulation  which  they  excite,  no  one  has  appeared  to 
his  majesty  more  worthy  to  receive  marks  of  his  benevolence  and  to  be 
distinguished  by  an  lionorable  title  than  the  Sieur  Arouet  de  Voltaire, 
who,  by  the  superiority  of  his  talents  and  his  steady  application,  has 
made  the  most  rapid  progress  in  all  the  sciences  that  he  has  cultivated, 
and  of  which  his  works,  received  with  just  applause,  are  the  fruit. 
To  this  effect  his  majesty  has  retained  and  retains  the  said  Sieur  de 
Voltaire  in  quality  of  historiographer  of  France,  permits  him  to  take 
the  title  and  quality  of  the  same  in  all  documents  and  papers  whatso- 
ever, desiring  him  to  enjoy  all  the  honors  and  prerogatives  which  per- 
sons hitherto  invested  with  such  titles  have  enjoyed  and  had  a  right 
to  enjoy,  together  with  the  sum  of  two  thousand  francs  of  emolument, 
payable  annually  during  his  life,  beginning  with  the  1st  of  January 
last,  according  to  the  conditions  and  ordinances  which  will  be  drawn 
up  by  virtue  of  the  present  brevet,  as  well  as  to  certify  its  validity. 

"  Signed,  "  Louis."  ^ 

When  he  accepted  this  office  he  was  far  from  anticipating 
an  increase  of  labor  through  it.  But,  in  truth,  no  poet  laure- 
ate ever  won  his  annual  pipe  of  sack  by  labors  so  arduous  as 
those  by  which  Voltaire  earned  this  salary  of  two  thousand 
francs.  Several  volumes  of  history  attest  his  diligence.  Dur- 
ing the  first  two  or  three  years  of  his  holding  the  place,  he 
was  historiographer,  laureate,  writer  of  royal  letters  and  min- 
isterial dispatches,  complimenter  of  the  royal  mistress,  and 
occasionally  court  dramatist  and  master  of  the  revels. 

The  marriage  festivities  at  Versailles  drew  to  a  close,  and 
all  that  brilliant  crowd  dispersed.  From  the  splendors  of  the 
court  he  was  suddenly  called  away  to  attend  the  son  of  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  through  the  small-pox.  He  assisted  to  save 
the  future  Duke  du  Chatelet  for  the  guillotine,  applying  to 
his  case  his  own  experience  of  the  two  hundred  pints  of  lem- 
onade. That  duty  done  and  his  forty  days  of  quarantine  ful- 
filled, he  returned  to  court,  wdiere  the  minister  for  foreign 
affairs  had  a  piece  of  work  for  his  pen.  Elizabeth,  Empress 
of  Russia,  had  offered  her  mediation  to  the  King  of  France, 

1  Voltaire  k  Cirey,  page  445. 


496  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

and  the  task  of  writing  the  king's  reply,  accepting  tlie  offer, 
was  assigned  to  Voltaire,  who  performed  it  in  the  loftiest  style 
of  sentimental  politics.  If  Louis  XV.  took  the  trouble  to 
glance  over  this  composition  he  must  have  been  pleased  to  find 
himself  saying  that  "  kings  can  aspire  to  no  other  glory  than 
that  of  promoting  the  happiness  of  their  subjects,"  and  swear- 
ing that  he  "  had  never  taken  up  arms  except  with  a  view  to 
promote  the  interests  of  peace."  It  was  an  amiable,  effusive 
letter,  in  the  taste  of  the  period,  being  written  by  the  man 
who  made  the  taste  of  the  period.  Later  in  the  summer  he 
drafted  a  longer  dispatch  to  the  government  of  Holland,  re- 
monstrating against  its  purpose  of  sending  aid  to  the  King  of 
England  against  the  Pretender.  It  was  he  also  who  wrote 
the  manifesto  to  be  published  in  Great  Britain  on  the  landing 
of  the  French  expedition  under  the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  in  aid 
of  the  Pretender.  Whenever,  indeed,  during  1745,  1746,  and 
1747,  the  ministry  had  occasion  for  a  skillful  pen,  Voltaire  was 
employed.  We  perceive  in  this  part  of  his  correspondence 
the  mingled  horror  and  contempt  that  war  excited  in  his 
mind.  "  Give  us  peace,  Monseigneur,"  is  the  burden  of  his  cry 
to  the  Marquis  d'Argenson  in  confidential  notes ;  and  we  see 
him,  with  his  usual  easy  assurance,  suggesting  such  marriages 
for  the  royal  children  as  would  "  render  France  happy  by  a 
beautiful  peace,  and  your  name  immortal  despite  the  fools." 

Whatever  philosophers  may  think  of  war,  few  citizens  can 
resist  the  contagious  delirium  of  victory  after  national  defeat 
and  humiliation.  The  King  of  France  again,  in  1745,  was 
posed  by  his  advisers  in  the  part  of  conqueror.  From  a  hill,  he 
and  the  Dauphin  looked  on  while  Marshal  Saxe  won  the  de- 
cisive and  fruitful  victory  of  Fontenoy  over  the  English  Duke 
of  Cumberland  and  the  forces  of  the  allies,  with  a  loss  of  eight 
thousand  men  on  each  side.  Voltaire  received  the  news  at 
Paris,  late  in  the  evening,  direct  from  D'Argenson,  who  was 
with  the  king  in  the  field.  He  dashed  upon  paper  a  congrat- 
ulatory note  to  the  minister:  "Ah!  the  lovely  task  for  your 
historian!  In  three  hundred  years  the  kings  of  France  have 
done  nothing  so  glorious.  I  am  mad  with  joy  !  Good-night, 
Monseigneur !  " 

In  a  few  days  came  that  letter  from  D'Argenson  in  reply  to 
"  Monsieur  the  Historian  "  which  has  long  been   justly  re- 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COUKT  OF  FRANCE.      497 

garded  as  one  of  the  curiosities  of  the  regime.     It  affords  mat- 
ter both  for  the  hiughing  and  the  crying  philosopher. 

"  It  was  a  glorious  sight  [wrote  M.  d'Argenson  to  Voltaire]  to  see 
the  king  and  the  Dauphin  writing  upon  a  drum,  surrounded  by  the 
conquerors  and  the  conquered,  the  prisoners,  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
I  had  the  honor  to  meet  the  king  on  Sunday  near  the  field  of  battle. 
When  I  arrived  at  the  camp  from  Paris  I  was  told  that  the  king  was 
gone  an  airing.  I  immediately  procured  a  horse,  and  came  up  to  his 
majesty  near  a  place  which  was  in  view  of  the  enemy's  camp  I  then 
learned,  for  the  first  time,  what  his  majesty's  intentions  were,  and  I 
never  saw  a  man  so  cheerful  as  he  was  upon  the  occasion.  Our  con- 
versation turned  precisely  on  a  point  of  history  that  you  have  discussed 
in  four  lines, — Which  of  our  kings  gained  the  last  royal  battle?  — 
and  I  assure  you  that  his  majesty's  Courage  did  not  wrong  his  judgment, 
nor  his  judgment  his  memory. 

"  We  then  went  to  lie  down  upon  the  straw.  Never  was  there  a  ball 
night  more  gay,  or  so  many  hon-mots.  We  reposed  between  the  inter- 
ruptions of  couriers  and  aids-de-camp.  The  king  sang  a  very  di'oll  song 
of  several  verses.  As  for  the  Dauphin,  he  went  to  the  battle  as  to  a 
hare-hunting,  saying,  '  What  is  all  this  ? '  A  cannon-ball  struck  in  the 
clay,  and  bespattered  a  man  near  the  king.  Our  masters  laughed 
very  heartily  at  the  man  who  was  bespattered.  One  of  my  brother's 
grooms,  who  was  behind,  received  a  wound  in  the  head  with  a  musket 
ball. 

"  It  is  certainly  true,  and  without  flattery,  that  the  king  gained  the 
battle  by  his  own  steadiness  and  resolution.  You  will  see  different 
accounts  and  details  of  this  affair.  You  will  be  told  of  a  terrible  mo- 
ment, in  which  we  beheld  a  second  edition  of  Dettingen,  where  the 
French  were  prostrated  before  the  English.  Their  rolling  fire,  which 
resembled  the  flames  of  hell,  did,  I  confess,  stupefy  the  most  uncon- 
cerned spectators,  and  we  began  to  despair  for  the  state. 

"  Some  of  our  generals,  who  have  more  heart  and  courage  than  abil- 
ities, gave  very  prudent  advice.  They  dispatched  orders  all  the  way 
to  Lisle ;  they  doubled  the  king's  guard ;  they  had  everything  packed 
up.  The  king  laughed  at  all  this,  and,  going  from  the  left  to  the  cen- 
tre, asked  for  the  corps-de-reserve  and  the  brave  Lowendahl :  but  there 
was  no  occasion.  A  charge  was  made  by  a  sham  corps-de-reserve,  con- 
sisting of  the  same  cavalry  which  had  already  made  an  unsuccessful 
attack,  the  king's  household,  the  carbineers,  those  of  the  French  guards 
who  had  not  advanced,  and  the  Irish  brigade,  who  are  excellent  troops, 
especially  when  they  march  against  the  English  and  Hanoverians. 

"  Your  friend,  M.  de  Eichelieu,  is  another  Bayard ;  it  was  he  who 

VOL.  I.  32 


498  XIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

gave  and  put  into  execution  the  advice  to  attack  the  infantry  like 
hunters  or  foragers,  pell-mell,  the  hand  lowered,  the  arm  shortened, 
masters,  servants,  officers,  cavalry,  infantry,  all  together.  Nothing 
can  withstand  this  French  vivacity,  which  is  so  much  spoken  of;  and 
in  ten  minutes  the  battle  was  gained  by  this  unexpected  stroke.  The 
heavy  English  battalions  turned  their  backs  upon  us;  and,  in  short, 
there  were  fourteen  thousand  of  them  killed.-' 

"  The  heavy  artillery  had  indisputably  the  honor  of  this  terrible 
slaughter ;  there  never  were  so  many  or  such  large  cannon  fired  in 
one  battle  as  at  the  battle  of  Fontenoy ;  there  were  no  less  than  a 
hundred.  It  would  seem,  sir,  as  if  the  poor  enemy  had  willingly  per- 
mitted everything  to  reach  the  army  that  could  be  destructive  to  them, 
the  cannon  from  Douay,  the  gens  (Tarmes,  and  the  musketeers. 

"There  is  one  anecdote  of  the  last  attack  I  mentioned,  which  I 
hope  will  not  be  forgotten.  The  Dauphin,  from  a  natural  impulse, 
drew  his  sword  in  the  most  graceful  manner,  and  insisted  upon  charg- 
ing ;  but  he  was  requested  to  desist.  After  all,  to  mention  the  bad 
and  the  good,  I  observed  a  habit,  too  easily  acquired,  of  looking  with 
tranquillity  on  the  dying  and  the  dead,  and  on  the  reeking  wounds 
which  were  to  be  seen  on  every  part  of  the  field  of  battle.  I  own  that 
my  heart  failed,  and  that  I  stood  in  need  of  a  cordial.  I  attentively 
observed  our  young  heroes,  who  seemed  too  indifferent  upon  this  oc- 
casion. I  am  fearful  that  this  inhuman  carnage  may  harden  their  dis- 
positions through  the  course  of  their  lives. 

"  The  triumph  was  the  finest  thing  in  the  world  :  God  save  the  king  ; 
hats  in  the  air  and  upon  bayonets ;  the  compliments  of  the  sovereign 
to  his  troops  ;  visiting  the  entrenchments,  villages,  and  redoubts ;  joy, 
glory,  and  tenderness !  But  the  ground  of  the  picture  was  human 
blood  and  fragments  of  human  flesh  ! 

•'  At  the  end  of  the  triumph  the  king  honored  me  with  a  conversa- 
tion on  the  subject  of  peace,  and  I  have  dispatched  some  couriers. 

"  The  king  was  much  entertained  yesterday  in  the  trenches ;  they 
fired  a  great  deal  at  him,  but  he  remained  there  three  hours.  I  was 
employed  in  my  closet,  which  is  my  trench  ;  for  I  confess  to  you  that 
I  have  been  much  retarded  in  business  by  all  these  dissipations.  I 
trembled  at  every  shot  I  heard  fired.  I  went  the  day  before  yesterday 
to  see  the  trenches,  but  I  cannot  say  there  is  anything  curious  in  them 
in  the  day-time.  We  shall  h^ve  the  Te  Deum  sung  to-day  under  a  tent, 
and  there  will  be  a  general  feu-de-joie  of  the  whole  army,  which  the 
king  will  go  to  see  from  Mont  Trinity.     It  will  be  very  fine. 

"  Adieu  !     Present  my  humble  respects  to  Madame  du  Chatelet." 

1  There  were  indeed  fourteen  thousand  men  missing  at  the  muster,  but  about 
six  thousand  returned  the  same  day. 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.  499 

Voltaire  read  this  epistle  with  the  delight  becoming  a  court- 
ier of  the  period,  and  set  to  work  instantly  to  turn  it  into 
heroic  verse.  His  poem,  "Fontenoy,"  of  three  hundred  lines  or 
more,  was  scattered  over  the  delirious  city  damp  from  the 
press,  and  in  a  few  days  was  declaimed  in  every  town  of  the 
kingdom.  Edition  after  edition  was  sold.  "  Five  editions  in 
ten  days !  "  The  author,  as  his  custom  was,  added,  erased, 
altered,  corrected;  offending  some  by  omitting  their  names, 
offending  others  by  inserting  names  odious  to  them ;  working 
all  one  night  to  make  the  poem  a  less  imperfect  expression  of 
the  national  joy ;  not  forgetting  to  dedicate  it  to  the  king,  and 
to  get  a  copy  placed  in  his  hands.  "  The  king  deigns  to  be 
content  with  it,"  he  wrote.  Thousands  of  copies  were  sold  in 
the  first  month,  and  there  were  two  burlesques  of  the  poem 
in  the  second. 

In  the  very  ecstasy  of  the  general  enthusiasm,  he  still  re- 
peats, in  a  private  note  to  D'Argenson,  "  Peace,  Monseigneur, 
peace,  and  you  are  a  great  man,  even  among  the  fools  !  " 

He  was  now  in  high  favor,  even  with  the  king,  who  had 
said  to  Marshal  Saxe  that  the  "  Princesse  de  Navarre  "  was  above 
criticism.  The  marshal  himself  gave  Madame  du  Chatelet 
this  agreeable  information.  "  After  that,"  said  the  author, 
"I  must  regard  the  king  as  the  greatest  connoisseur  in  his 
kingdom."  He  renewed  his  intimacy  with  his  earl 3'  patron, 
the  Duchess  du  Maine,  who  still  held  court  at  the  chateau  of 
Sceaux,  near  by.  By  great  good  luck,  too,  as  doubtless  he 
regarded  it  at  the  time,  he  was  acquainted  with  the  new  mis- 
tress, Pompadour,  before  she  was  Pompadour.  He  knew  her 
when  she  was  only  the  most  bewitching  young  wife  in  France, 
cold  to  her  rich  and  amorous  young  husband,  and  striving  by 
every  art  that  such  women  know  to  catch  the  king's  eye  as 
he  hunted  in  the  royal  forest  near  her  abode.  Already,  even 
while  the  king  was  sleeping  on  histrionic  straw  on  the  field 
near  Fontenoy,  it  was  settled  that  the  dream  of  her  life  was 
to  be  realized.     She  was  to  be  Petticoat  HI. 

This  summer,  during  the  king's  absence  at  the  seat  of  war, 
Voltaii-e  was  frequently  at  her  house,  and  had  become  estab- 
lished in  her  favor.  She  was  a  gifted,  brilliant,  ambitious 
woman,  of  cold  temperament,  who  courted  this  infamy  as  men 
seek  honorable  posts  which  make  them  conspicuous,  powerful, 


500  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

and  envied.  In  well-ordered  nations,  accomplished  men  win 
such  places  by  thirty  years'  well-directed  toil  in  the  public  ser- 
vice. She  won  her  place,  and  kept  it  nineteen  years,  by  amus- 
ing the  least  amusable  of  men,  and  gratifying  a  sensuality  witli 
which  she  had  no  sympathy  whatever.  She  paid  a  high  price. 
In  return,  she  governed  France,  enriched  her  family,  promoted 
her  friends,  exiled  her  enemies,  owned  half  a  dozen  chateaux, 
and  left  an  estate  of  thirty-six  millions  of  francs. ^ 

With  such  and  so  many  auxiliaries  supporting  his  new 
position,  the  historiographer  of  France,  if  he  had  been  a 
younger  man,  might  have  felt  safe.  But  he  knew  his  ground. 
Under  personal  government  nations  usually  have  two  masters, 
the  king  and  the  priest,  between  whom  there  is  an  alliance, 
offensive  and  defensive.  He  had  gained  some  favor  with  the 
king,  the  king's  ministers,  and  the  king's  mistress.  But  the 
priest  remained  hostile.  The  king  being  a  coward,  a  fit  of 
the  colic  might  frighten  him  into  turning  out  the  mistress 
and  letting  in  the  confessor ;  and,  suppose  the  colic  success- 
ful, instantly  a  pious  and  bigoted  Dauphin  became  king,  with 
a  Mirepoix  as  chief  priest !  Moreover,  to  depend  upon  the 
favor  of  either  king  or  mistress  is  worse  than  basing  the  pros- 
perity of  an  industrial  community  upon  a  changeable  fraction 
in  a  tariff  bill. 

Revolving  such  thoughts  in  an  anxious  mind,  Voltaire  con- 
ceived a  notable  scheme  for  going  behind  the  Mirepoix,  and 
silencing  him  forever  by  capturing  the  favor  of  the  Pope. 
Benedict  XIV.  was  a  scholar,  a  gentleman  of  excellent  tem- 
per, and  no  bigot.  He  owed  his  election  to  his  agreeable 
qualities.  When  the  cardinals  were  exhausted  by  days  and 
nights  of  fruitless  balloting,  he  said,  with  his  usual  gayety  and 
good  humor,  "Why  waste  so  much  time  in  vain  debates  and 
researches  ?  Do  you  want  a  saint  ?  Elect  Gotti.  A  politi- 
cian ?  Aldovrandi.  A  good  fellow  ?  Take  me."  And  they 
took  him. 

It  was  soon  after  the  close  of  the  fete  at  Versailles  that  Vol- 
taire consulted  the  Marquis  d'Argenson,  minister  for  foreign 
affairs,  upon  his  project  of  getting,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  some 
mark  of  papal  benevolence  that  could  do  him  honor  both  in 
this  world  and  the  next."  The  minister  shook  his  head.  He 
1  2  Les  Maitresses  de  Louis  XV.,  98. 


I 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.       501 

said  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  mingle  in  that  way  things  ce- 
lestial and  political.  Like  a  true  courtier  of  the  period,  the 
poet  betook  himself  to  a  lady,  Mademoiselle  du  Thil,  a  con- 
nection of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  and  extremely  well  disposed 
toward  himself.  She  had  a  friend  in  the  Pope's  household, 
the  Abbe  de  Tolignan,  whom  she  easily  engaged  in  the  cause. 
D'Argenson,  also,  bore  the  scheme  in  mind  when  he  wrote 
to  the  French  envoy  at  Rome.  Voltaire,  meanwhile,  read  the 
works  of  his  Holiness,  of  which  there  are  still  accessible  fif- 
teen volumes,  and  in  various  ways  "coquetted"  with  him, 
causing  him  to  know  that  the  celebrated  Voltaire  was  one  of 
his  readers.  The  good-natured  Pope  was  prompt  to  respond. 
The  Abb^  de  Tolignan  having  asked  for  some  mark  of  papal 
favor  for  Voltaire,  the  Pope  gave  two  of  his  large  medals  to 
be  forwarded  to  the  French  poet,  the  medals  bearing  the 
Pope's  own  portrait.  His  Holiness  also  caused  a  polite  letter 
to  be  written  to  him  by  his  secretary,  asking  his  acceptance  of 
the  medals.  Then  the  French  envoy,  ignorant  of  these  pro- 
ceedings, also  applied  to  the  Pope  on  behalf  of  Voltaire,  re- 
questing for  him  one  of  his  large  medals.  The  Pope,  ignorant 
of  the  envoy's  ignorance,  replied,  "  To  St.  Peter's  itself  I 
should  not  give  any  larger  ones  !  "  The  envoy  was  mystified, 
and  Voltaire,  on  receiving  a  report  of  the  affair,  begged  the 
minister  for  foreign  affairs  to  write  to  the  envoy  in  explana- 
tion. 

The  two  large  medals  reached  the  poet  in  due  time.  He 
thought  Benedict  XIV.  the  most  plump-cheeked  holy  father 
the  church  had  enjoyed  for  a  long  time,  and  one  who  "  had 
the  air  of  knowing  very  well  tvhat  all  that  was  worth.'"  He 
wrote  two  Latin  verses  as  a  legend  for  the  Pope's  portrait,  to 
the  effect  that  Lambertinus,  officially  styled  Benedict  XIV., 
was  the  ornament  of  Rome  and  the  father  of  the  world,  who 
by  his  works  instructed  the  earth,  and  adorned  it  by  his  vir- 
tues. Emboldened  by  success,  he  ventured  upon  an  audacity 
still  more  exquisite,  and  one  which  would  not  be  concealed  in 
the  archives  of  the  foreign  office.  All  Europe  should  know 
the  favor  in  which  this  son  of  the  church  was  held  at  the  pa- 
pal court.  He  resolved  to  dedicate  to  the  Pope  that  tragedy 
of  "  Mahomet,"  which  the  late  Cardinal  de  Fleury  had  ad- 
mired and  suppressed.  He  sent  a  copy  of  the  drama  to  the 
Pope,  with  the  following  letter :  — 


602  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

[Paris,  August  17,  1745.]  "Very  Holy  Father, — Your  Holi- 
ness will  be  pleased  to  pardon  the  liberty  which  one  of  the  humblest, 
but  one  of  the  warmest,  admirers  of  virtue  takes  in  consecrating  to 
the  chief  of  the  true  religion  a  production  against  the  founder  of  a 
religion  false  and  barbarous.  To  whom  could  I  more  properly  ad- 
dress a  satire  upon  the  cruelty  and  the  errors  of  a  false  prophet  than 
to  the  vicar  and  imitator  of  a  God  of  peace  and  truth  ?  Will  your 
Holiness  deign  to  permit  that  I  place  at  your  feet  both  the  book  and 
its  author  ?  I  dare  ask  your  protection  for  the  one,  and  your  bene- 
diction for  the  other.  It  is  with  these  sentiments  of  profound  venera- 
tion that  I  prostrate  myself  and  kiss  your  sacred  feet." 

The  Pope  delayed  not  to  accept  the  homage.  He  answered 
the  letter  in  the  tone  of  a  scholar  and  man  of  the  world  :  — 

"  Benedict  XIV.,  Pope,  to  his  dear  son,  salutation  and  Apostolic 
Benediction.  Some  weeks  ago  there  was  presented  to  me  on  your 
behalf  your  admirable  tragedy  of  '  Mahomet,'  which  I  have  read  with 
very  great  pleasure.  Cardinal  Passionei  gave  me  afterwards,  in  your 
name,  the  beautiful  poem  of  '  Fontenoy.'  M.  Leprotti  has  communi- 
cated to  me  your  distich  for  my  portrait ;  ^  and  Cardinal  Valenti  yes- 
terday sent  me  your  letter  of  August  17th.  Each  of  these  marks  of 
your  goodness  merited  a  particular  expression  of  my  gratitude ;  but 
permit  me  to  unite  these  different  attentions  in  order  to  render  you 
my  thanks  for  all  of  them  at  once.  You  ought  not  to  doubt  the  sin- 
gular esteem  with  which  merit  so  acknowledged  as  yours  inspires  me. 
When  your  distich  was  published  in  Rome,  we  were  told  that  a  man 
of  letters,  a  Frenchman,  being  in  a  company  when  it  was  sjjoken  of, 
discovered  in  the  first  verse  a  false  quantity.  He  pretended  that  the 
word  hie,  which  you  employ  as  short,  ought  always  to  be  long.  We 
replied  that  he  was  in  error;  that  that  syllable  was  short  or  long  in 
the  poets  indifferently,   Virgil   having  made  the   word  short  in  this 

verse,  — 

'  Solus  hie  inflexit  sensus,  animumque  labantem/ 

and  long  in  this, — 

'  Hie  finis  Priami  fatorum,  hie  exitus  ilium.' 

"This  answer  was,  perhaps,  pretty  well  for  a  man  who  has  not  read 
Yirgil  in  fifty  years.  Although  you  are  the  interested  party  in  this 
difference,  we  have  so  high  an  idea  of  your  candor  and  integrity,  that 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  make  you  the  judge  between  your  critic  and 
ourselves.  Nothing  remains  but  for  us  to  grant  you  our  Ajiostolic 
Benediction. 

1  The  distich  was  as  follows :  — 

"  Lambertinus  hie  est,  Romse  decus,  et  pater  orbis, 
Qui  munduin  scriptis  doeuit,  virtutibus  oniat.'' 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.        503 

"  Given  at  Rome,  on  the  clay  of  Holy  Mary  the  greater,  Septem- 
ber 19,  1745,  the  sixth  year  of  our  pontificate." 

To  this  letter  Voltaire  replied  with  curious  happiness.  He 
contrived  to  flatter  the  Pope  very  agreeably,  while  surpassing 
him  on  his  own  ground :  — 

[Voltaire  to  Pope  Benedict  XIV.]  "  The  lineaments  of  your  Holi- 
ness are  not  better  expressed  in  the  medals  with  which  you  have  had 
the  particular  goodness  to  gratify  me,  than  are  those  of  your  mind 
and  character  in  the  letter  with  which  you  have  deigned  to  honor  me. 
I  place  at  your  feet  my  very  humble  and  heart-felt  thanks.  I  am 
obliged  to  recognize  the  infallibility  of  your  Holiness  in  your  literary 
decisions,  as  in  other  things  more  important.  Your  Holiness  has  a 
better  acquaintance  with  the  Latin  tongue  than  the  French  fault-finder 
whose  mistake  you  deigned  to  correct.  I  admire  the  aptness  of  your 
citation  from  Virail,  Amonsf  the  monarchs  who  have  been  amateurs 
in  literature,  the  sovereign  pontiffs  have  always  distinguished  them- 
selves ;  but  none  have  adorned  like  your  Holiness  the  most  profound 
erudition  with  the  richest  ornaments  of  polite  literature. 

'Agnoscoi  rerum  dominos,  gentemque  togatam.' 

"  If  the  Frenchman  who  censured  with  so  little  justice  the  syllable 
hie  had  had  his  Virgil  as  present  to  his  memory  as  your  Holiness, 
he  would  have  been  able  to  cite,  very  apropos,  a  verse  in  which  this 
word  is  both  short  and  long.  That  beautiful  verse  seemed  to  me 
to  contain  the  presage  of  the  favors  with  which  your  generous  good- 
ness has  overwhelmed  me.     It  is  this  :  — 

*  Hie  vir,  hie  est,  tibi  quern  promitti  ssepius  audis.'  ^ 

"  Rome  ought  to  resound  with  this  verse,  to  the  exaltation  of 
Benedict  XIV.  It  is  with  sentiments  of  the  most  profound  vener- 
ation and  of  the  most  lively  gratitude  that  I  kiss  your  sacred  feet."  * 

Soon  an  edition  of  the  tragedy  of  "  IVIahomet  "  appeared, 
preceded  by  this  correspondence,  in  Italian  and  in  French, 
and  thus  the  world  was  informed,  in  the  most  interesting  man- 
ner, that  the  author  stood  well  with  the  head  of  the*  church. 

He  continued  to  labor  for  the  amusement  of  the  court.  He 
wrote  his  opera  of  the  "  Temple  of  Glory,"  set  to  music 
by  Rameau,  for  the  grand  fete  to  be  given  at  Fontainebleau 

1  For  Romanes.     1  ^neid,  281. 

2  Tliis  is  the  man,  this  is  he  [Augustus  Caesarl  whom  thou  hast  often  beard 
promised  to  tliee.     6  ^neid,  791. 

*  5  (Euvres  de  Voltaire,  352. 


504  LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

in  honor  of  tne  late  successes  of  the  French  in  the  field.  He 
also  set  about  preparing  a  more  durable  memorial  of  the 
two  campaigns  in  which  the  king  had  figured,  —  a  history  of 
the  same,  compiled  from  the  lips  of  eye-witnesses.  He  flew 
at  this  patriotic  task,  as  he  says,  "with  passion,"  and  con- 
tinued it  until  his  work  became  a  considerable  history  of  the 
reicrn  of  Louis  XV. 

An  incident  which  occurred  at  the  beginning  of  this  task 
amused  him  very  much,  and  added  one  mure  supper  story 
to  his  ample  stock.  Having  heard  that  the  secretary  of  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  during  the  recent  operations,  bore  the 
name  of  his  old  English  friend  Falkener,  ambassador  at  Con- 
stantinople, he  wrote  to  the  secretary,  asking  for  information 
relating  to  those  operations.     He  wrote  in  English  :  — 

"  You  bear  a  name  that  I  love  and  respect.     I  have,  these  twenty 
years  since,  the  honor  to  be  friend  to  Sir  Everard  Falkeuer.      I  hope 
it  is  a  recommendation  towards  you.     A  better  one  is   my  love  for 
truth.     I    am  bound    to  speak  it.     My  duty  is  to  write  the  history 
of  the  late  campaigns,  and  my  king  and  my  country  will  approve  me 
the  more,  the  greater  justice  I'll  render  to  the  english  nation.     Though 
our  nations  are  ennemies  at  present,  yet  they  ought  for  ever  to  enter- 
tain a  mutual  esteem  for  one  another  :  my  intention  is  to  relate  what 
the  duke  of  Cumberland  has  done  worthy  of  himself  and  his  name,  and 
to  enregister  the  most  particular  and  noble  actions  of  your  chiefs  and 
officers,  which  deserve  to  be  recorded,  and  what  passed  most  worthy 
of  praise  at  Dettingen  and  Fontenoy,  particularities,  if  there  is  any, 
about  general  sir  James  Campbel's  death,  in  short,  all  that  deserves 
to  be  transmitted   to  posterity.     I  dare  or  presume  to  apply  to  you, 
sir,  on  that  purpose ;  if  you   are  so  kind  as  to   send  me   some  mem- 
oirs, I'll  make  use  of  them.     If  not,  I'll  content  myself  with  relat- 
inof  what  has  been  acted  noble  and  glorious  on  our  side ;  and  I  will 
mourn  to  leave  in  silence  many  great  actions  done  by  your  nation, 
which  it  would  have  been  glorious  to  relate." 

We  can  imagine  his  delight  on  receiving  in  reply  a  cor- 
dial letter  from  Sir  Everard  himself.  It  was  Sir  Everard 
Falkener  who  was  serving  under  the  Duke  of  Cumberland. 

"  How  could  I  guess,  my  dear  and  honorable  friend  [wrote  Vol- 
taire] that  your  Mussulman  person  had  shifted  Galata  for  Flanders  ? 
and  had  passed  from  the  seraglio  to  the  closet  of  the  duke  of  Cum- 
berland ?  But  now  I  conceive  it  is  more  pleasant  to  live  with  such 
a  prince,  than  to  speak  in  state  to  a  grand-visir  by  the  help  of  au 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.       505 

interpreter.  Had  I  thought  it  was  my  dear  sir  Everard  who  was 
secretary  to  the  great  prince,  I  had  certainly  taken  a  journey  to 
Flanders.  My  duty  is  to  visit  the  place  where  your  nation  gave  such 
noble  proofs  of  her  steady  courage.  An  historian  ought  to  look  on 
and  view  the  theatre  in  order  to  dispose  the  scenery  of  his  work." 

Sir  Evenird  supplied  him  with  abundant  documents,  and 
continued  to  serve  him  in  various  ways,  as  well  in  the  field  as 
at  home.  One  short  English  letter  of  the  next  campaign 
from  Voltaire  to  Falkener  may  find  place  here : — 

[Paris,  June  13,  174G.]  "My  dearest  and  most  respected 
Friend,  —  Although  I  am  a  popish  dog,  much  addicted  to  his  Holiness, 
and  like  to  be  saved  by  his  power,  yet  I  retain  for  my  life  something  of 
the  english  in  me ;  and  I  cannot  but  pay  you  my  compliment  upon  the 
brave  conduct  of  your  illustrious  duke.  You  have  made  a  rude,  rough 
camfDaign  in  a  climate  pretty  different  from  that  of  Turky.  You  have 
got  amongst  your  prisoners  of  war  a  French  nobleman  called  the  mar- 
quis d'Eguilles,  brother  to  that  noble  and  ingenious  madman  who  has 
wrote  the  Lettres  juives.  The  marquis  is  possessed  of  as  much  wit  as 
his  brother,  but  is  a  little  wiser.  I  think  nobody  deserves  more  your 
obliging  attention,  I  dare  say  kindness.  I  recommend  him  to  you 
from  my  heart.  My  dear  Falkener  is  renowned  in  France  for  many 
virtues  and  dear  to  me  for  many  benefits  ;  let  him  do  me  this  new 
favour,  I  will  be  attached  to  him  for  all  my  life.  Farewell,  my  dear 
friend ;  let  all  men  be  friends,  let  peace  reign  over  all  Europe !  " 

Voltaire  suggested  to  the  minister  for  foreign  affairs  that 
he  be  sent  on  a  secret  mission  to  the  quarters  of  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  in  the  interest  of  peace,  concealing  his  object 
under  a  pretext  of  visiting  his  old  friend,  the  duke's  secretary. 
The  scheme,  however,  was  not  carried  out. 

Early  in  December,  1745,  the  victories  of  the  French  army 
were  duly  celebrated  at  Fontainebleau,  when  the  Duke  de 
Richelieu  again  called  into  being  a  hall  like  that  which  had 
served  for  the  marriage  festival,  and  again  Voltaire  slione  as 
author  of  the  divertisement  performed  in  it.  He  presented  to 
the  splendid  auditory  gathered  on  the  occasion  three  kinds  of 
royal  glory.  In  the  first  act,  Belus  figures,  a  conqueror  pure 
and  simple,  barbarous  and  bloody,  —  a  mere  despoiler  and  des- 
olater.  Him  the  Muses  disdain  and  the  gods  drive  from  the 
Temple  of  Glory.  Next  appears  Bacchus-Alexander,  con- 
queror of  India,  himself  conquered  by  his  appetites,  roaming 
the  earth  with  his  bacchanalian  crew.     To  him  also  a  place  is 


606  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

denied  in  the  Temple  of  Glory.  Last  comes  benign,  majestic 
Trajan,  aiming  only  at  the  glory  of  Rome  and  the  welfare  of 
the  world ;  valiant  in  war,  but  loving  peace  ;  deaf  to  calumny, 
but  ever  solicitous  to  seek  out  and  reward  modest  worth,  — 
such  a  king,  in  short,  as  intoxicated  France  longed  to  be  able 
to  think  that  Louis  XV.  was.  To  him,  of  course,  the  Temple 
of  Glory  flung  open  wide  its  gates,  and  Louis-Trajan  entered, 
amid  the  rapturous  effusion  of  the  spectators.  But  he  entered 
not  alone.  Plotine,  a  new  and  tender  conquest,  appears  at  his 
side,  and  goes  with  him  into  the  Temple,  while  the  chorus 
sings,  — 

"  Toi  qne  la  Victoire 
Couronne  en  ce  jour, 
Ta  plus  belle  gloire 
Vient  du  tendre  amour."  ^ 

Who  could  fail  to  recognize  Louis  and  Pompadour  in  Trajan 
and  Plotine  ?  No  true  courtier.  This  opera,  aided  by  music, 
dance,  song,  and  spectacle,  all  in  great  perfection,  was  highly 
successful.  At  the  close  of  the  performance,  the  author,  much 
elated,  went  to  the  door  of  the  royal  box,  and  said  to  the  Duke 
de  Richelieu,  who  was  near  the  king,  and  said  it  loud  enough 
for  the  king  to  hear,  "  Is  Trajan  content  ?  "  The  king  had 
the  grace  to  be  disconcerted  by  this  enormous  compliment,  and 
made  no  remark  upon  it.  He  ordered  the  divertisement  to  be 
repeated  on  a  subsequent  evening ;  and  it  served  on  similar 
occasions  during  the  long  favor  of  Richelieu.^ 

During  this  fete^  Madame  du  ChS,telet  was  conspicuous 
among  the  grand  ladies  of  the  court,  and  enjoyed  once  more 
her  hereditary  right  of  sitting  in  the  queen's  presence  on  a 
stool  without  a  back,  and  of  losing  her  money  at  the  queen's 
play. 

It  is  more  agreeable  to  observe  that  Voltaire  used  this  gleam 
of  court  favor  for  the  benefit  of  others,  as  well  as  himself.  To 
this  period  belongs  the  pleasing  story  of  his  inviting  Marmon- 
tel  to  Paris,  and  starting  him  upon  the  perilous  career  of  liter- 
ature. With  us  a  poor  and  ambitious  student  works  his  way 
through  college  by  teaching,  by  mechanical  labor,  by  harvest- 
ing, by  serving  as  waiter  at  summer  hotels  ;  in   France,   he 

^  Thou  whom  Victory  crowns  to-day,  thy  most  beautiful  glory  comes  of  tender 
love. 
2  Voltaire  a  la  Cour,  par  Desnoiresterres,  page  32. 


VOLTAIEEAT   THE   COURT   OF  FRANCE.  607 

often  competes  for  the  liberal  prizes  offered  every  year  by  the 
"Academies"  of  the  larger  towns  for  the  best  poems  and  es- 
says. Marmontel,  destined  to  a  long  and  illustrious  litei'ary  life, 
was  at  twenty  an  extremely  poor  student  at  a  college  of  Tou- 
louse. For  the  prize  of  poetry,  while  as  yet  he  knew  not  one 
rule  or  usage  of  prosody,  he  selected  as  his  subject  the  Inven- 
tion of  Gunpowder,  and  launched  boldly  into  the  sublime, 

"  Kneaded  by  some  infernal  Fury's  bloody  hands." 

The  ambitious  competitor  has  related,  in  his  own  interest- 
ing manner,  the  results  of  this  venture,  — 

"  I  could  not  [he  says  in  his  Memoirs]  recover  from  my  astonish- 
ment at  having  written  so  fine  an  ode.  I  recited  it  with  all  the  intox- 
ication of  enthusiasm  and  self-love  ;  and  when  I  sent  it  to  the  Academy 
I  had  no  doubt  of  its  bearing  away  the  prize.  It  did  not  succeed ;  it 
did  not  even  olitain  for  me  the  consolation  of  honorable  mention.  I 
was  enraged,  and,  in  my  indignation,  I  wrote  to  Voltaire,  sent  him  my 
poem,  and  cried  to  him  for  vengeance.  Every  one  knows  with  what 
kindness  he  received  all  young  men  who  announced  any  talent  for 
poetry  ;  the  French  Parnassus  was  an  empire  whose  sceptre  he  would 
have  yielded  to  no  one  on  earth,  but  whose  subjects  he  delighted  to 
see  multiply.  He  sent  me  one  of  those  answers  that  he  could  turn 
with  so  much  grace,  and  of  which  he  was  so  liberal.  The  praises  he 
bestowed  on  my  poem  amply  consoled  me  for  what  I  called  the  injus- 
tice of  the  Academy,  whose  judgment,  as  I  said,  did  not  weigh  one 
single  grain  in  the  balance  against  such  a  suffrage  as  his.  But  what 
flattered  me  still  more  than  his  letter  was  the  present  he  sent  me  of  a 
copy  of  his  works,  corrected  by  his  own  hand.  I  was  mad  with  pride 
and  joy,  and  ran  about  the  town  and  the  colleges  with  his  present  in 
my  hands.  Thus  began  my  correspondence  with  that  illustrious  man, 
and  that  intimate  friendship  which  lasted,  without  any  change,  for  five 
and  thirty  years,  dissolved  only  by  his  death. 

"  I  sent  ray  mother  the  handsome  present  he  made  me  of  his  works. 
She  read  them,  and  (on  her  death-bed)  was  reading  them  again.  '  If 
you  see  him,'  said  she,  '  thank  him  for  the  sweet  moments  he  has 
made  your  mother  pass ;  tell  him  that  she  knew  by  heart  the  second 
act  of  "  Zaire,"  that  she  wept  over  "  Merope,"  and  that  the  verses  in 
the  "  Henriade "  upon  Hope  have  never  left  her  memory  or  her 
heart.'  " 

The  young  man,  compelled  at  length  to  decide  between  the 
church,  the  law,  and  literature,  consulted  the  chief  of  litera- 


508  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

ture,  wlio  advised  him  to  remove  at  once  to  Paris  and  try  the 
career  of  letters.  Marmontel  replied  that  his  poverty  forbade 
so  doubtful  and  costly  an  experiment.  During  the  December 
fete  at  Fontainebleau,  Voltaire  was  so  happy  as  to  get  from 
the  Count  d'Orry,  comptroller-general  of  the  finances,  the  prom- 
ise of  a  place  in  the  public  service  for  the  young  poet.  Let 
Marmontel  relate  what  followed  :  — 

"Toward  the  end  of  this  year  [1745],  a  little  note  from  Voltaire 
came,  and  determined  me  to  set  off  for  Paris.  '  Come,'  said  he,  '  and 
come  without  inquietude.  M.  Orry,  whom  I  have  spoken  to,  under- 
takes to  provide  for  you.'  Who  was  M.  Orry  ?  I  knew  not.  I  went 
to  ask  my  good  friends  at  Toulouse,  and  showed  them  my  note.  '  M. 
Orry ! '  exclaimed  they.  '  Why,  it  is  the  comptroller-general  of  finance  ! 
My  dear  friend,  your  fortune  is  made  :  you  will  be  a  farmer-general. 
Remember  us  in  your  glory.  Protected  by  the  minister,  it  will  be 
easy  for  you  to  gain  his  esteem  and  confidence.  You  will  be  at  the 
source  of  favor.  Dear  Marmontel,  make  some  of  its  rivulets  flow 
down  to  us.  A.  little  streamlet  of  Pactolus  will  content  our  ambi- 
tion.' One  would  be  receiver-general ;  another  would  be  satisfied  with 
an  humbler  place  in  the  finances,  or  with  some  other  employment  of 
two  or  three  hundred  a  year  ;  and  this  depended  on  me  !  " 

With  six  louis  d'or  in  his  pocket,  and  a  translation  into 
French  of  Pope's  "  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  he  set  out  for  Paris,  a 
journey  of  three  hundred  miles,  and  reached  at  length,  with 
palpitating  heart  and  "  a  kind  of  religious  fear,"  the  abode  of 
Voltaire. 

"  Persuaded  [he  continues]  that  I  should  have  to  speak  first,  I  had 
turned  in  twenty  ways  the  phrase  with  which  I  should  address  him, 
and  was  satisfied  with  none.  He  relieved  me  from  this  difiiculty.  On 
hearing  my  name,  he  came  to  me,  and  extending  his  arms,  '  My  good 
friend,'  said  he,  '  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  Yet  I  have  bad  news  to 
tell  you.  M.  Orry  had  undertaken  to  provide  for  you  ;  M.  Orry  is 
no  lonjier  in  favor.' 

"  I  could  scarcely  have  received  a  more  severe,  more  sudden,  or 
more  unexpected  blow  ;  but  I  was  not  stunned  by  it.  I  have  always 
been  astonished  at  the  courage  I  have  felt  on  great  occasions,  for  my 
heart  is  naturally  feeble.  '  Well,  sir,'  said  I,  '  then  I  must  contend 
with  adversity  ;  I  have  long  known  and  long  struggled  with  it.'  '  I 
am  glad,'  said  he,  '  to  find  you  have  confidence  in  your  own  powers. 
Yes,  my  good  friend,  the  true  and  most  worthy  resource  of  a  man  of 
letters  is  in  himself  and  in  liis  genius.     But,  till  yours  shall  have  pro- 


VOLTAIRE  AT   THE   COURT  OF  FRANCE.  509 

cured  you  something  upon  which  to  subsist,  —  I  speak  to  you  candidly, 
as  a  friend,  —  I  must  provide  for  you.  I  have  not  invited  you  hither 
to  abandon  you.  If,  even  at  this  moment,  you  are  in  want  of  money, 
tell  me  so  :  I  will  not  suffer  you  to  have  any  other  creditor  than  Vol- 
taire.' I  returned  him  thanks  for  his  kindness,  assuring  him  that,  for 
some  time  at  least,  I  should  not  need  to  profit  by  it,  and  that,  when  I 
should,  I  would  confidently  have  recourse  to  him.  '  You  promise  me,' 
said  he,  '  and  I  depend  on  you.  In  the  mean  time,  let 's  hear  what 
you  think  of  applying  to.'  '  I  really  don't  know ;  you  must  decide 
for  me.'  '  The  stage,  my  friend,  the  stage  is  the  most  enchanting  of 
all  careers  ;  it  is  there  that  in  one  day  you  may  obtain  glory  and  for- 
tune. One  successful  piece  renders  a  man  at  the  same  time  rich  and 
celebrated  ;  and  if  you  take  pains  you  will  succeed.'  '  I  do  not  want 
ardor,'  replied  I ;  '  but  what  should  I  do  for  the  stage  ?  '  '  Write  a 
good  comedy,'  said  he,  in  a  firm  tone.  '  Alas,  sir,  how  should  I  draw 
jDortraits  ?  I  do  not  know  faces.'  He  smiled  at  this  answer.  '  Well, 
then,  write  a  tragedy.'  I  answered  that  I  was  not  quite  so  ignorant 
of  the  passions  and  the  heart,  and  that  I  would  willingly  make  the 
attempt.     Thus  passed  my  first  interview  with  this  illustrious  man." 

INIarmontel  began  at  once  to  study  the  art  of  play-writing, 
and  an  old  actor  soon  set  him  upon  the  true  path  by  telling 
him  that  the  art  of  writing  plays  that  act  well  can  be  learned 
only  at  the  theatre.  "  He  is  right,"  said  Voltaire  ;  "  the  thea- 
tre is  the  school  for  us  all.  It  must  be  open  to  you,  and  I  ought 
to  have  thought  of  it  sooner."  He  procured  free  admission 
for  the  young  poet,  and,  erelong,  Marraontel  produced  his 
"  Dionysius  "  with  a  success  that  fixed  his  desthiy.  Voltaire 
himself  witnessed  his  second  tragedy,  "  Aristomcne." 

"  He  had  expressed  [says  Marmontel]  an  inclination  to  see  my 
piece  before  it  was  completed,  and  I  had  read  to  him  four  acts,  with 
which  he  was  pleased.  But  the  act  I  had  still  to  write  gave  him  some 
inquietude,  and  not  without  reason.  In  the  four  acts  that  he  had 
heard,  the  action  appeared  complete  and  uninterrupted.  '  What ! ' 
said  he,  after  the  reading,  '  do  you  pretend,  in  your  second  tragedy,  to 
supersede  a  general  rule  ?  When  I  wrote  "  The  Death  of  Cassar,"  in 
three  acts,  it  was  for  a  boys'  school,  and  my  excuse  was  the  constraint  I 
was  under  to  introduce  only  men.  But  you,  on  the  great  theatre,  and 
on  a  subject  where  nothing  could  confine  you,  give  a  mutilated  piece  in 
four  acts ;  for  which  unsightly  form  you  have  no  example  !  This,  at 
your  age,  is  an  unfortunate  license  that  I  cannot  excuse.'  *  And,  in- 
deed,' said  I,  '  this  is  a  license  I  have  no  intention  of  taking.  In  my 
own  imagination,  my  tragedy  is  in  five  acts,  which  I  hope  to  complete.' 


610  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

'  And  how  ?  '  inquired  he.  '  I  have  just  heard  the  last  act  ;  all  is  per- 
fectly coherent ;  and  you  surely  do  not  think  of  beginning  the  action 
earlier  ?  '  *  No,'  answered  I,  '  jthe  action  will  begin  and  finish  as  you 
have  seen  ;  the  rest  is  my  secret.  What  I  meditate  is,  perhaps,  folly. 
But,  however  perilous  the  step  may  be,  I  must  take  it ;  and  if  you 
damp  my  courage  all  my  labor  will  be  lost.'  '  Cheerily,  then,  my 
good  friend,  go  on  ;  risk,  venture  ;  it  is  always  a  good  sign.  In  our 
profession,  as  in  war,  there  are  fortunate  temerities  ;  and  the  greatest 
beauties  frequently  burst  forth  under  the  most  desperate  difficulties.' 

"  At  the  first  representation  he  insisted  on  placing  himself  behind  me 
in  my  box ;  and  I  owe  him  this  testimony,  that  he  was  almost  as  agi- 
tated and  tremulous  as  myself.  '  Now,' said  he,  'before  the  curtain 
is  drawn  up,  tell  me  from  what  incident  you  have  drawn  the  act  that 
was  wantino-.'  I  made  him  recollect  that  at  the  end  of  the  second  act 
it  was  said  that  the  wife  and  son  of  Aristomene  were  going  to  be  tried, 
and  that  at  the  commencement  of  the  third  it  appeared  that  they  had 
been  condemned.  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  this  trial  that  was  then  supposed 
to  take  place  between  the  acts  I  have  introduced  on  the  stage.' 
'  What !  a  criminal  court  on  the  stage  ?  '  exclaimed  he.  '  You  make 
me  tremble.'  '  Yes,'  said  I,  'it  is  a  dangerous  sand,  but  it  was  in- 
evitable ;  it  is  Clairon  that  must  save  me.' 

"'Aristomene,'  had  no  less  success  than  'Dionysius.'  Voltaire  at 
every  burst  of  applause  pressed  me  in  his  arms.  But  what  astonished 
him,  and  made  him  leap  for  joy,  was  the  effect  of  the  third  act.  When 
he  beheld  Leonide,  loaded  with  irons,  like  a  criminal,  appear  before  her 
judges,  command  them  by  her  dignity  and  magnanimity,  get  full  pos- 
session of  the  stage  and  of  the  souls  of  the  spectators,  turn  her  defense 
into  accusation,  and,  distinguishing  among  the  senators  the  virtuous 
friends  of  Aristomene  from  his  faithless  enemies,  attack,  overwhelm, 
and  convict  them  of  perfidy,  amid  the  applauses  she  received,  '  Brava, 
Clairon  ! '  cried  Voltaire,     '  Made  animo,  generose  puer  ! 

The  coming  of  Marmontel  to  Paris  added  one  more  to  the 
ever-increasing  number  of  young  writers  whom  Voltaire  had 
assisted  to  form.  The  new  men  of  talent  were  his  own,  and 
they  were  preparing  to  aid  him  in  future  contests  with  hostile 
powers.  The  Marquis  de  Vauvenargues,  the  young  soldier 
who  was  compelled  by  ill  healtli  to  abandon  the  career  of  arms, 
in  which  he  was  already  distinguished,  and  now  aspired  to 
serve  his  country  in  the  intellectual  life,  had  been  for  some 
time  one  of  Voltaire's  most  beloved  friends.  His  first,  his  only 
work,  "Introduction  to  the  Knowledge  of  the  Human  Mind," 
was  just  appearing  from  the  press,  heralded  by  Voltaire's  zeal- 


I 


VOLTAIRE  AT  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE.       611 

0U8  commendation.  "  My  dear  Master,"  the  young  disciple 
loved  to  begin  Lis  letters  ;  and  Voltaire,  in  writing  to  him,  used 
all  those  endearing  expressions  which  often  make  a  French 
letter  one  long  and  fond  caress.  He  sank  into  the  grave  in 
1747,  but  his  name  and  his  work  survive.  It  is  evident  from 
his  correspondence  that  he  was  of  a  lofty  and  generous  nature, 
capable  of  the  true  public  spirit,  —  the  religion  of  the  new 
period. 

Marmontel  reached  Paris  in  time  to  witness  a  day  of  tri- 
umph for  Voltaire,  which  had  been  long  deferred.  There  was 
a  vacancy  at  the  French  Academy  early  in  1746.  Mirepoix's 
voice  was  not  heard  on  this  occasion,  and  Voltaire,  without  se- 
rious trouble,  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  unanimous  election  to 
the  chair.  This  event  could  not  have  been  at  that  time  any 
increase  of  honor  to  an  author  of  his  rank.  He  valued  an  aca- 
demic chair  for  himself  and  for  his  colleagues,  such  as  Mar- 
montel, D'Alembert,  and  others,  as  an  additional  protection 
against  the  Mirepoix.  Members  of  the  Academy  had  certain 
privileges  in  common  with  the  officers  of  the  king's  household, 
Tliey  could  not  be  compelled  to  defend  a  suit  out  of  Paris ; 
they  were  accountable  to  the  king  directly,  and  could  not  be 
molested  except  by  the  king's  command.  Above  all,  they  stood 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  king's  effulgent  majesty;  they  shared  in 
the  mystic  spell  of  ranh,  which  no  American  citizen  can  ever 
quite  understand,  and  of  which  even  Europeans  of  to-day  begin 
to  lose  the  sense.  He  was  £t  little  safer  now  against  all  the 
abuses  of  the  royal  power,  usually  covered  by  lettres  de  cachet. 

May  9,  1746,  was  the  day  of  his  public  reception  at  the 
Academy,  when,  according  to  usage,  it  devolved  upon  him  to 
deliver  a  set  eulogium  upon  his  departed  predecessor.  The 
new  member  signalized  the  occasion  by  making  his  address 
much  more  than  that.  His  eulogy  was  brief,  but  sufficient, 
and,  when  he  had  performed  that  pious  duty,  he  struck  into  an 
agreeable  and  very  ingenious  discourse  upon  the  charms,  the 
limits,  the  defects,  and  the  wide-spread  triumphs  of  the  French 
language.  With  that  matchless  art  of  his,  he  contrived  in 
kingly  style  to  compliment  all  his  "great  friends  and  allies," 
while  adhering  to  his  subject  with  perfect  fidelity.  Was  it  not 
one  of  the  glories  of  the  French  language  that  a  Frederic  should 
adopt  it  as  the  language  of  his  court  and  of  his  friendships,  and 


512  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

that  Italian  cardinals  and  pontiffs  should  speak  it  like  natives? 
His  dear  Princess  Ulrique,  too,  —  then  Queen  of  Sweden,  —  was 
not  French  her  native  tongue  ?  There  were  some  wise  remarks 
in  this  address ;  as,  for  example,  where  he  says  that  eminent 
talents  become  of  necessity  rarer  as  the  whole  nation  ad- 
vances :  "  In  a  well-grown  forest,  no  single  tree  lifts  its  head 
very  high  above  the  rest."  He  concluded  with  the  "necessary- 
burst  of  eloquence  "  respecting  the  late  warlike  exploits  of  the 
king ;  in  which,  however,  he  gave  such  prominence  to  the 
services  in  the  field  of  the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  a  member  of 
the  Academy,  that  the  First  Gentleman  almost  eclipsed  the 
monarch. 

He  was  now  at  the  highest  point  of  his  court  favor.  An 
epigram  of  his,  written  at  this  period,  conveys  to  us  his  sense 
of  the  situation,  and  renders  other  comment  superfluous :  — 

"  Mon  '  Heuri  Quatre  '  et  ma  '  Zaire ' 

Et  mon  Americaine  '  Alzire  ' 
Ne  m'ont  valu  jamais  un  seul  regard  du  roi ; 
J'eus  beaucoup  d'euncmis  avec  tres-peii  de  gloire  ; 
Les  honneurs  et  les  bicus  pleuvent  enfin  sur  moi 

Pour  une  farce  de  la  foire."  ^ 

1  My  "Henry  IV."  and  my  "Zaire"  and  my  American  "Alzire"  were  never 
worth  to  me  one  look  of  the  king.  I  had  many  enemies  and  very  little  glory. 
At  length  honors  and  benefits  rain  upon  me  for  a  farce  of  the  fair. 


I 


CHAPTER  XLIir. 

OUT  OF  FAVOR  AT  COURT. 

His  court  favor  was  no  protection  to  him  against  his  ill- 
wishers,  either  within  or  without  the  palace.  Least  of  all 
could  it  protect  him  against  himself. 

His  young  friend,  Vauvenargues,  told  him  truly,  just  after 
his  election  to  the  French  Academy,  that  his  enemies  had 
never  been  "  so  unchained  against  him  "  as  then,  and  notified 
him  that  no  effort  would  be  spared  to  damn  his  new  tragedy, 
"  Semiramis,"  which  he  had  written  for  the  approaching /e^g 
of  the  Dauphiness,  and  at  her  request.  The  generous  Vauve- 
nargues was  so  shocked  at  the  mania  that  seemed  to  prevail 
among  some  men  of  letters  to  degrade  their  chief  that  he  said 
he  was  disgusted,  not  only  with  them,  but  with  literature  itself. 
"  I  conjure  you,  my  dear  master,"  he  wrote,  "  to  finish  your 
tragedy  so  thoroughly  that  there  will  remain  no  pretext  for  an 
attack  upon  it,  even  to  envy's  self."  The  lamentable  death 
of  the  princess  in  the  second  year  of  her  married  life  delayed 
the  production  of  "  Semiramis,"  but  did  not  stay  the  torrent 
of  abuse  that  assailed  the  author. 

Everything  he  did  was  burlesqued  or  lampooned,  —  his 
"  Princesse  de  Navarre,"  his  "  Temple  de  Gloire,"  his  speech 
at  the  Academy.  The  poet  Roy,  an  old  man  now,  and 
sharper  tempered  than  ever,  had  been  doubly  disappointed 
by  Voltaire's  success  at  court.  He  had  composed  a  divertise- 
ment  for  the  wedding  fete,  which  had  been  rejected  ;  and  he 
had  been  for  many  years  a  candidate  for  an  academic  chair, 
with  no  chance  of  success.  One  member,  perhaps,  remem- 
bered his  ancient  epigram  upon  the  election  of  the  Duke  de 
Clermont,  to  the  effect  that  39 -fO  does  not  equal  40.  The 
acidulated  poet  revived  this  year  a  scurrilous  poem  of  his,  writ- 
ten in  17oG,  entitled  "The  Poetic  Triumph,"  in  which  the 
various   mishaps  of  Voltaire's  life,  real  and  imaginary,  were 

VOL.  I.  33 


614  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

related  in  the  manner  of  a  burlesque  Odyssey.  Of  course  the 
"  bastonades  "  figured  conspicuously  in  this  work,  as  well  as 
the  controversy  with  Desfontaines ;  and,  in  the  new  edition  of 
1746,  all  the  recent  adventures  and  misfortunes  of  Voltaire 
which  admitted  of  burlesque  treatment  were  introduced.  Roy 
had  a  particular  skill  in  defamation,  as  men  of  small  talent 
are  apt  to  have,  and  he  produced  on  this  occasion  some  effect- 
ive couplets.  Besides  this  burlesque,  be  composed  a  parody 
of  Voltaire's  "  Fontenoy,"  and  a  burlesque  of  his  academic 
discourse,  and,  in  general,  "  unchained  himself "  against  the 
historiographer  of  France. 

It  is  a  pity  Voltaire  could  not  have  been  philosopher  enough 
to  laugh  at  all  this,  and  straightway  forget  it,  and  so  say  we 
all,  until  some  small,  malign  Roy  selects  us  for  a  target. 
Then  we  feel  as  Voltaire  felt,  and  many  of  us  would  do  as  he 
did,  if  we  could.  Among  other  things,  he  casually  let  loose 
in  Paris  drawing-rooms  an  epigram  of  the  following  pur- 
port :  — 

"  Know  you  a  certain  rhymer,  obscure,  dry  and  pompous, 
often  cold,  always  hard,  having  the  rage  and  not  the  art  to 
slander,  who  cannot  please,  still  less  can  injure  ;  for  his  mis- 
deeds in  a  jail  once  caged,  and  after  at  St.  Lazarus  confined  ; 
banished,  beaten,  detested  for  his  crimes,  disgraced,  laughed 
at,  spit  upon  for  his  rhymes,  —  contented  cuckold,  speaking 
always  of  himself  ?  Every  one  cries,  Ah  I  it  is  the  poet 
Roy!'' 

Such  verses  do  not  appease  anger.  The  booksellers'  shops 
of  Paris  were  not  the  less  littered  with  burlesques  of  the  au- 
thor, in  verse  and  prose,  sportive  and  rancorous.  From  the 
catalogue  which  French  compilers  give  of  these,  we  might 
conclude  that  they  were  the  chief  literary  product  of  the  sum- 
mer of  1746.  Voltaire,  enraged,  unable  to  reach  the  well- 
known,  anonymous  authors,  rose  against  the  sellers  of  this 
defamatory  trash.  Armed  with  ministerial  authority,  and 
conscious  of  a  king's  mistress  behind  him,  he  caused  the  shops 
to  be  searched  by  the  police,  the  offensive  publications  to  be 
seized,  and  at  least  five  persons  to  be  arrested.  Two  inci- 
dents of  these  proceedings  were  exceedingly  unfortunate.  In 
one  of  the  houses  searched,  an  elderly  man,  a  zealous  col- 
lector of  the  burlesques,  was  lymg  sick  of  a  mortal  disease,  of 


OUT  OF  FAVOR  AT  COURT.  515 

which  he  died  soon  after.  In  another  instance  the  wrong  man 
was  accidentally  cast  into  prison.  One  Travenol,  a  violinist 
at  the  opera,  had  distinguished  himself  above  all  others  by  his 
industry  in  spreading  abroad  everything  he  could  find  adverse 
to  Voltaire ;  induced  thereto  by  some  offense  the  poet  had 
given  his  mistress  in  the  distribution  of  the  roles  of  the  opera 
of  "  Samson."  Travenol  being  in  the  country  on  leave,  the 
police  committed  the  terrible  error  of  arresting  his  father,  an 
old  dancing-master,  aged  eighty  years,  who  kneAV  nothing  of 
the  matter.  On  learning  the  mistake,  Voltaire  procured  from 
the  ministry  an  order  for  his  release;  but,  unhappily,  the  re- 
spectable old  man  had  been  six  days  in  prison,  of  which  three 
had  been  passed  in  solitary  confinement,  before  he  was  re- 
stored to  his  home.  His  aged  wife,  too,  and  the  wife  of  his 
absent  son  were  alarmed  and  distressed  beyond  measure. 

The  true  culprit  was  found  at  length,  and  against  him  the 
exasperated  author  brought  a  suit  for  damages.  For  a  mo- 
ment, through  the  good  offices  of  the  Abb^  d'Olivet,  he  was 
disposed  to  forgive ;  but,  mistaking  some  proceeding  of  Tra- 
venol, he  conceived  the  idea  that  he  was  played  upon,  and 
therefore  resumed  the  prosecution  with  redoubled  zeah  For 
sixteen  months  this  affair  was  in  the  courts  ;  the  Travenols 
bringing  a  counter  suit  for  false  imprisonment.  After  the 
usual  delays,  the  cause  was  first  tried  in  December,  1746, 
when  a  decision  was  pronounced  which  satisfied  no  one.  For 
the  imprisonment  of  the  elder  Travenol,  Voltaire  was  con- 
dejnned  to  pay  five  hundred  francs  damages,  with  costs,  and 
ordered,  in  the  manner  of  the  ancient  courts,  not  to  do  so 
again.  Travenol,  the  younger,  was  required  to  pay  three 
hundred  francs,  with  costs  and  interest,  for  having  "  occasioned 
and  circulated  defamatory  libels  "  against  Voltaire,  and  he  was 
expressly  forbidden  to  repeat  those  offenses.  Two  of  the  pieces 
circulated  by  Travenol,  namely,  Roy's  "  Poetic  Triumph  " 
and  a  burlesque  by  the  same  author  of  Voltaire's  speech  at 
the  Academy,  were  ordered  to  be  brought  to  the  bar  of  the 
court,  and  there  publicly  "  suppressed  and  lacerated  "  by  the 
clerk  of  the  court. 

Voltaire  appealed  to  a  higher  tribunal.  Another  year  passed. 
After  a  new  trial,  which  occupied  five  sessions,  the  decree  of 
the  lower  court  was  confirmed.     Again  all  parties  issued  from 


616  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

the  contest  disappointed.  The  plaintiff  had  demanded  a  par 
ticular  retraction,  and  the  infliction  of  a  penalty  which  would 
deter  his  libelers  from  repeating  their  offenses.  He  deemed 
the  penalty  imposed  a  mere  mockery  of  justice.  "  Ought  not 
the  scoundrels  to  be  hanged,"  he  wrote  to  Richelieu,  "  who 
infect  the  public  with  these  poisons  ?  But  the  poet  Roy  will 
have  some  pension,  if  he  does  not  die  of  leprosy,  by  which  his 
soul  is  more  attacked  than  his  body."  Both  the  court  and 
the  public,  we  are  assured,  disapproved  this  prosecution,  and 
censured  all  the  parties  to  it.  The  collusion  between  the 
old  satirist  and  the  young  violinist,  for  the  purpose  of  wreak- 
ing their  spite  upon  Voltaire,  was  sufficiently  shown  in  the 
course  of  these  trials.  Nevertheless,  the  prosecution  of  a  poor 
musician  for  selling  burlesques,  which  gave  but  slight  pain 
to  any  one  but  the  object  of  them,  did  not  present  the  plain- 
tiff to  the  public  in  a  pleasing  light.  Then,  as  now,  a  rich 
and  powerful  man  seeking  justice.  In  a  court  of  justice,  against 
a  poor  and  insignificant  man,  had  small  chance  of  success. 
The  sympathies  of  the  court  and  the  public  go  with  the  poor 
man.  Ere  long,  the  poet  Roy  was  pensioned ;  Travenol  con- 
tinued to  play  the  violin  at  the  opera ;  and  the  libels  were  not 
extinguished. 

The  favor  of  the  reigning  mistress  could  not  avail  in  protect- 
ing the  historiographer  against  the  consequences  of  his  own  im- 
prudence. The  rage  among  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  in  Europe 
to  possess  cantos  of  "  La  Pucelle  "  was  such  that  the  author 
of  the  poem  did  not  always  I'esist  their  importunities.  The 
Duchess  of  Wurtemberg  had  a  portion  of  it.  Frederick  II.  of 
Prussia  had  with  him  two  cantos,  and  Voltaire  could  not  but 
remember  that  once  the  king's  campaign  carriage  had  been 
captured  by  Austrian  hussars,  and  manuscripts  of  his  own 
carried  off,  no  one  knew  where.  That  monarch  had  a  peculiar 
fondness  for  the  "  Pucelle."  He  disapproved  the  poet's  new 
vocation  of  historiographer  to  such  warriors  as  Louis  XV.  and 
Richelieu,  which  delayed  the  completion  of  that  precious  work. 
*' Believe  me,"  wrote  the  king,  in  December,  1746;  '-finish 
*  La  Pucelle.'  Better  worth  while  is  it  to  smooth  the  wrinkles 
from  the  foreheads  of  worthy  people  than  to  compose  gazettes 
for  blackguards  [poZ/ssons]."  He  reproached  the  poet  for  not 
trusting  him  with  more  of  a  poem  which  he  had  confided  to  a 


OUT  OF  FAVOE  AT  COURT.  517 

lady.  <'  You  have  lent  your  '  Pucelle  '  to  the  Duchess  of 
Wurtemberg.  Know  that  slie  has  had  it  copied  during  the 
night.  Such  are  the  people  whom  you  trust ;  while  the  only 
persons  who  deserve  your  confidence,  or,  rather,  to  whom  you 
ought  to  abandon  yourself  entirely,  are  the  only  ones  whom 
you  distrust."  Voltaire  swore  that  the  duchess  possessed  no 
more  of  the  poem  than  the  king,  "She  has  perhaps  copied  a 
page  or  two  of  the  part  which  you  have  ;  but  it  is  impossible 
that  she  has  that  which  you  have  not."  Besides,  he  might 
have  added,  duchesses  do  not  take  the  field  in  a  travelins:  car- 
riage  full  of  contraband  writings.  The  king's  mistress  could 
not  at  that  day  protect  the  known  author  of  "  La  Pucelle," 
even  though  she  might  read  it  nightly  to  the  king  in  her  bou- 
doir. 

Meanwhile,  he  seemed  to  be  drawing  nearer  to  the  court. 
In  December,  1746,  according  to  Duvernet,  he  made  his  first 
appearance  at  the  table  assigned  in  all  the  palaces  of  the  king 
to  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Chamber.  The  tradition  is  that  some 
of  these  high-born  functionaries  eyed  the  bourgeois  gentleman 
askance,  until  he  had  uttered  one  of  those  pleasantries  which 
no  true  son  of  Gaul  can  resist.  They  were  speaking  of  the 
rumored  marriage  of  a  young  lord  with  the  daughter  of  a  far- 
mer-general, and  the  question  arose  as  to  where  the  ceremony 
should  be  performed.  "  At  the  tax-office,"  suggested  one. 
"  There  is  no  chapel  there,"  said  others.  Voltaire,  hitherto 
silent,  joined  in  the  conversation.  "  Pardon  me,  gentlemen," 
said  he,  "  there  is  the  chapel  of  the  Impenitent  Thief."  Farm- 
er-general, under  the  old  regime,  was  synonymous  in  the  pub- 
lic estimation  with  plunderer.  The  company  laughed,  and 
relented  toward  their  new  associate.^  It  is  not  improbable 
that  the  bourgeois  gentleman-in-ordinary  was  an  unwelcome 
addition  to  a  corps  that  valued  itself  upon  its  unquestionable 
nobility.  M.  Desnoiresterres  publishes  a  curiously  illiterate 
letter  of  the  time  from  a  young  gentleman  to  his  uncle  in  La 
Vendee,  in  which  he  reflects  upon  the  king  for  appointing  to 
so  exalted  a  post  "  a  certain  Arouet  of  Saint-Lou,  son  of  one 
Domar,  who  has  made  himself  known  under  the  name  of  Vol- 
taire." The  king,  he  adds,  will  not  put  upon  the  nobility 
"  the  affront  "  of  dispensing  this  person  (ce  cuidani)  from  his 

^  Duvernet,  chapter  xii. 


518  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

proofs  (of  nobility) ;  but  in  order  to  procure  those  proofs,  lie 
will  be  obliged  to  seek  them  among  the  relations  of  his  mother, 
which  will  be  "  a  dishonor  to  gentlemen  of  name  and  arms, 
noble  from  time  immemorial."  Duvernet's  anecdote,  there- 
fore, may  have  had  a  basis  of  truth  ;  and  it  may  have  been  for 
this  reason  that  the  king  permitted  him,  soon  after,  to  sell  the 
keenly-coveted  post,  and  retain  its  title,  rights,  exemptions, 
and  privileges.  He  sold  it  for  thirty  thousand  francs,  and 
never  again  bestowed  his  society  uj^on  his  colleagues. 

Other  enemies  he  had  at  court,  more  powerful  and  more 
respectable  than  a  second-table  of  court  dandies.  In  the  royal 
palaces  of  France  and  of  other  countries  in  that  century,  there 
were  two  courts,  the  dull-virtuous  and  the  brilliant-wicked  ; 
one  presided  over  by  the  neglected  queen,  the  other  by  the 
reigning  mistress.  The  Queen  of  France,  with  her  children 
and  court,  all  under  the  influence  of  the  austere  and  orthodox 
Mirepoix,  could  protest  against  the  life  led  in  the  other  wing 
of  the  palace  only  by  the  practice  of  piety  carried  to  a  forbid- 
ding excess.  They  sought  and  found  alleviation  in  strict  com- 
pliance with  the  religious  routine  prescribed  by  the  church. 
They  lived  with  some  frugality  and  decency.  If  their  con- 
ception of  duty  and  self-control  was  narrow,  erroneous,  obso- 
lete, they  at  least  kept  alive  in  France  the  sense  that  there 
were  such  things  as  duty  and  self-control.  They  felt,  also,  in 
some  degree,  that  duty  and  self-control,  though  binding  on  all, 
are  most  binding  upon  the  powerful  and  conspicuous  classes, 
who  may  disregard  them  for  a  time  with  apparent  impunity. 
Nor  did  they  neglect  the  elegant  life.  The  princesses  at- 
tempted every  art  and  played  upon  every  instrument,  even  the 
trombone,  and  the  queen  sustained  her  wearisome  part  with 
sufficient  dignity.  It  was  necessary,  no  doubt,  that  their  mode 
of  virtue,  so  cramping  to  the  intelligence,  so  debilitating  to  the 
conscience,  should  pass  away,  and  be  supplanted  by  a  mode 
that  will  at  length  give  the  intellect  and  taste  free  play.  But, 
take  them  just  as  they  were,  the  life  led  at  the  queen's  end  of 
Versailles  was  less  remote  from  virtue  than  that  lived  in  Pom- 
padour's splendid  rooms. 

The  queen's  circle  was  not  so  destitute  of  influence  as  it 
seemed.  The  king  was  not  devoid  of  natural  affection,  and 
he  was  liable  to  fits  of  religious  fear.     His  family,  it  appears, 


OUT  OF  FAVOR  AT  COURT.  619 

had  influence  enough  to  keep  Voltaire  from  gaining  a  firm 
foothold  at  court. 

This  was  the  period  when  private  theatricals  were  the  reign- 
ing amusement  of  the  idle  classes  in  Europe.  In  1748  there 
were,  as  we  are  told,  sixteen  noted  companies  of  amateur  actors 
in  Paris  among  the  nobility,  without  reckoning  those  of  the 
bourgeois,  one  of  which  was  about  to  give  Lekain  to  the  public 
stage.  Madame  de  Pompadour  conceived  the  project  of  amus- 
ing the  king  by  a  company  of  amateurs  composed  of  the  elect 
courtiers,  herself  being  manager  and  chief  actress.  She  pos- 
sessed all  the  agreeable  accomplishments :  she  could  act,  sing, 
play,  and  dance,  to  admiration.  She  could  draw  and  paint 
pretty  well,  and  even  engrave  with  some  skill.  Her  company, 
which  chiefly  consisted  of  princes,  dukes,  and  duchesses,  was 
capable  of  giving  comedy,  opera,  and  ballet.  Admission  to  its 
lowest  grade,  even  to  the  rank  of  silent  supernumeraries,  was 
regarded  in  the  palace  as  the  most  exquisite  distinction  which 
a  mortal  could  hope  to  attain  in  this  sublunary  scene.  Ma- 
dame de  Pompadour's  femme  de  chamhre  obtained  a  commis- 
sion in  the  army  for  one  of  her  relations  by  procuring  for  a 
duke  the  illustrious  privilege  of  playing  a  policeman's  part  of 
a  few  lines  in  "  Tartuffe." 

Voltaire  had  formed  madame's  literary  taste ;  he  had  kno\vn 
her  from  childhood ;  he  was  a  member  of  her  circle  when  the 
king  first  cast  his  eyes  upon  her  bewitching  beauty  ;  she  had 
made  him  the  confidant  of  what  she  called  her  "love;"  she 
used  to  give  him  some  of  that  medicinal  Tokay,  recommended 
by  the  King  of  Prussia,  which  he  declared  was  better  than  that 
which  the  king  himself  had  sent  to  Cirey.  Moreover,  she  was 
naturally  and  necessarily  on  the  side  of  "  the  philosophers,'' 
who  alone  could  imagine  a  scheme  of  morals  that  would  not 
condemn  her  position  in  the  home  of  the  Queen  of  France. 
Cardinals,  bishops,  and  priests  courted  her,  flattei'ed  her, 
cringed  to  her,  during  all  her  long  reign  of  nineteen  years, 
and  stood  ready  to  give  the  king  instant  absolution,  on  the 
easy  con.dition  of  her  brief  i-esidence  at  one  of  her  numerous 
chateaux.  Nevertheless,  she  knew  very  well  what  the  lan- 
guage was  in  which  their  profession  compelled  tiiem  to  de- 
scribe hers.  In  a  word,  she  desired  to  oblige  Voltaire,  and 
she  selected  his  comedy  of  "  The  Prodigal  Son  "  as  the  play 


520  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

to  be  first  performed  in  the  palace  before  the  king.  It  had  a 
striking  success.  At  this  theatre  the  etiquette  was  suspended 
which  forbade  applause  in  the  king's  presence,  and  the  hall 
resounded  Avith  acclamations.  The  comedy  was  even  played 
a  second  time,  which  gave  the  author  the  right  to  witness  the 
performance,  and  admission  to  the  royal  theatre  ever  after. 
Naturally  desirous  of  testifying  his  gratitude,  he  circulated  a 
little  poem  which  he  had  written  for  Madame  de  Pompadour 
while  the  king  was  at  the  seat  of  war,  in  1745 :  — 

"  So  then  you  reunite  all  the  arts,  all  the  tastes,  all  the  tal- 
ents of  j)leasing.  Pompadour,  you  embellish  Court,  Parnassus, 
and  Cythera.  Charm  of  all  hearts,  treasure  of  a  single  mor- 
tal, may  a  lot  so  blest  be  eternal !  May  your  precious  days  be 
marked  hj fetes ;  may  peace  to  our  land  return  with  Louis! 
Be  both  of  you  without  enemies,  and  may  both  of  you  keep 
your  conquests'"' 

In  this  poem  he  now  made  a  slight  alteration.  Instead  of 
wishing  peace  to  return  w4th  Louis,  he  said,  "  May  new  suc- 
cesses mark  the  fetes  of  Louis,"  which  gave  it  the  appearance 
of  a  more  recent  composition.  There  was  a  swift  copying  of 
these  verses  in  the  palace ;  and  she  was  the  fortunate  lady 
who  could  first  exhibit  the  true  version.  The  queen  and  her 
daughters  soon  read  them,  and  read  them  only  to  be  the  more 
incensed  against  the  author.  According  to  Pierre  Laujon,  a 
dramatist  who  contributed  several  pieces  to  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour's theatre,  and  knew  all  the  gossip  of  both  ends  of  the 
palace,  the  entire  coterie  of  the  queen  and  Dauphin  wei'e  boil- 
ing with  indignation  at  the  last  line  of  this  poem :  "  May  both 
of  you  keep  your  conquests ! "  Those  soured,  dull,  virtuous 
people  thought  this  pretty  jest  "  the  climax  of  rashness  and 
audacity."  "The  very  idea,"  says  Laujon,  "of  putting  upon 
a  level  the  glorious  conquests  of  the  king  in  Flanders  and  his 
conquest  of  the  '  heart '  of  a  mistress  was  an  unpardonable 
crime."  All  the  enemies  of  Voltaire  were  summoned  to  a  con- 
ference in  the  apartment  where  the  queen  usually  passed  the 
evening,  and  there  this  new  audacity  of  his  was  amply  dis- 
cussed. 

The  next  day,  the  king's  daughters,  who  always  retained 
some  hold  upon  his  affections,  visited  him  at  their  usual  hour, 
and   embraced  him  with  more  than  their   usual   tenderness. 


OUT  OF  FAVOR  AT  COURT.  521 

They  repeated  their  caresses  again  and  again,  and  when  his 
heart  was  softened  toward  them  they  introduced  the  subject 
of  the  verses,  and  dwelt  upon  the  insolence  of  a  poet  who 
could  speak  in  that  light  tone  of  the  king's  immortal  exploits. 
"  Before  Madame  de  Pompadour  could  be  informed  of  it,"  says 
Laujon,  "the  exile  of  Voltaire  was  signed  ;  "  and  the  mistress, 
powerful  as  she  was,  dared  not  risk  a  struggle  to  get  the 
decree  annulled.  She  dissembled  her  mortification  and  was 
silent. 

Voltaire  dined  that  evening  in  Paris  with  a  gay  company  of 
literary  men,  one  of  whom  was  his  brother  dramatist,  Pierre 
Laujon,  who  reports  the  scene.  Voltaire  came  late  to  the 
foftst,  no  one  but  himself  being  aware  of  what  had  occurred  at 
Versailles.  "  Quick  !  "  said  the  host ;  "  bring  some  dinner  for 
M.  de  Voltaire."  But  the  new-comer  took  nothing  except 
seven  or  eight  cups  of  coffee  without  milk  and  two  little  rolls. 
That,  however,  did  not  prevent  him  from  "  paying  his  score 
by  a  number  of  piquant  sallies."  "  I  remember,"  says  the 
narrator,  "  that  when  the  guests  began  to  speak  of  the  new 
tax  upon  playing  cards,  he  very  strongly  approved  it,  and  men- 
tioned many  other  articles  of  luxury  that  invited  taxation ; 
thus  indicating  an  ardent  and  fruitful  mind,  to  which  no  sub- 
ject of  politics  or  administration  was  foreign.  After  leaving 
the  table,  he  was  surrounded  by  the  guests,  who  plied  him  well 
with  questions."  1 

This  exile  of  which  Laujon  speaks  was  probably  a  moment- 
ary concession  to  the  ladies,  and  did  not  involve  the  immedi- 
ate departure  of  the  poet  from  Paris.  From  about  this  time, 
however,  in  17-17,  we  perceive,  from  his  letters  and  other  indi- 
cations, that  his  court  favor  was  of  little  force  ;  and  in  the 
course  of  that  year  an  event  occurred  which  caused  him  to 
leave  the  royal  abode  with  precipitation.  He  was  out  of  place 
at  court.  No  palace  is  large  enough  to  contain  two  monarchs. 
All  deference  and  courtesy  as  he  Avas  to  princes  and  their  mis- 
tresses, he  was  not  under  the  illusion  which  concealed  from 
many  eyes  the  precise  stature  of  those  personages.  He  knew 
too  well,  as  he  remarked  of  the  jovial  Pope  Benedict,  "  what 
all  that  was  worth." 

^  CEuvrcs  Choisies  de  P.  Laujon,  page  90. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

PRECIPITATE  FLIGHT  FROM  COURT. 

During  bis  long  life  of  literary  labor,  Voltaire  usually  bad 
an  amanuensis  or  secretary  domesticated  witb  bim.  Tbree  of 
his  secretaries  recorded  tbeir  recollections,  from  wbicb  we  get 
close  and  interesting  views  of  tbe  man,  botb  in  bis  ordinary 
routine  and  at  some  crises  of  bis  existence.  One  of  tbem,  S. 
G.  Longcbamp,  entered  bis  service  during  tbis  turbulent  period 
of  court  and  ministerial  favor,  and  remained  witb  bim  about 
seven  years.  Voltaire  evidently  bad  mucb  confidence  in  bim  ; 
he  trusted  bim  to  collect,  bold,  and  pay  considerable  sums  of 
money,  and  even  left  bim  in  charge  of  important  affairs  during 
his  own  absences  from  Paris.  Some  doubt  has  been  cast  upon 
tbe  trustwortbiness  of  Longcbamp's  extraordinary  anecdotes 
from  tbe  incorrectness  of  some  statements  wbicb  be  must  have 
derived  from  others.  Tbe  Travenol  affair,  for  example,  he 
misunderstood,  and  blends  witb  it  otber  matters  having  no 
connection  witb  it.  When  be  related  what  he  personally  saw 
and  heard,  he  appears  to  have  usually  done  his  best  to  tell  tbe 
truth  ;  and,  indeed,  we  may  well  ask  what  mortal  could  have 
invented  those  of  bis  tales  wbicb  task  our  credulity  most.  I 
shall  tberefore  translate  a  few  passages  from  his  narrative, 
leaving  to  the  reader  tbe  mucb  more  difficult  task  of  reading 
tbem  by  tbe  light  of  otber  days  and  climes. 

I  need  only  add  that  Longcbamp  owed  his  introduction  into 
tbe  house  of  Madame  du  Cbatelet  to  tbe  recommendation  of  bis 
sister,  who  was  madame's  femme  de  chamhre.  He  was  first 
engaged  as  her  steward,  or  maitre  d'hStel,  and  took  charge  of 
her  establishment  in  Paris. 

LONGCBAMP    ENTERS    THE    SERVICE    OF    VOLTAIRE. 

"  I  remained  five  or  six  months  sufficiently  at  my  ease  in  the  house 
of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  having  scarcely  anything  to  do  except  attend- 


PRECIPITATE  FLIGHT  FROM  COURT.  623 

ing  to  purchases  and  commissions.     She  had  but  a  single  meal  a  day, 
which  was  supper,  and  she  took  that  almost  always  away  from  home. 
In  the  morning  her  breakfast  consisted  of  a  roll  and  a  cup  of  coffee 
with  cream,  so  that  her  steward  and  cook  had  very  little  occupation. 
During  that  period  I  do  not  believe  she  gave  more  than  ten  or  twelve 
suppers,  and  when  that  happened  there  were  but  few  guests,  with  few 
dishes  and  still  less  wine,     ller  cellar  was  not  well  furnished  ;  her  wine- 
merchant  sent  her  two  dozen  bottles  at  once,  half  being  red,  which 
he  called  burgundy,  but  which  really  was  of  Paris  vintage  ;  and  the 
other  half  white,  called  champagne,  and  no  more  correctly  styled  than 
the  other.     When  that  supply  was  exhausted  it  was  renewed.     My 
principal  business  was  to  lay  in  the  other  provisions  of  the  house,  — 
wood,   candles,  food,  etc.     Madame   did  not  board  her  servants,  but 
gave  them  instead   a  compensation   in  money.     It   was  I  who  was 
charged  to  pay  them  every  fifteen  days :  her  coachman,  her  two  lack- 
eys, and  her  female  cook  at  the  rate  of  twenty  sous  per  day;  her 
footman,  her  femme  de  chamhre,  and  myself  at  thirty  sous  per  day.     I 
received  also  the  dessert  from  the  table,  which  I  shared  with  my  sister. 
It  was  not  long  before  I  wearied  of  the  monotonous  life  which  I  led 
at  Madame  du  Chatelet's,  where,  during  a  great  part  of  the  day,  I  was 
without  employment.     I  sought  some  resource  to  dissipate  my  eniiui, 
and  I  found  one  which   suited  me  very  well.     M.  de  Voltaire  lodged 
in  the  house,  as  well  as  his  secretary,  and  with  the  latter  I  contracted 
a  firm  friendship.     When  the  work  of  the  house  was  done,  and  there 
remained  nothing  more  for  me  to  do,  I  mounted  to  this  secretary's 
room.     He  gave  me  the  works  of  M.  de  Voltaire  to  read,  and  even, 
seeing  that  I  wrote  pretty  well,  begged  me   sometimes  to  help  him 
copy  the  manuscripts  of  that  author,  who  often  overcharged  him  with 
work.     That  amused  me  much,  and  when  madame  was  from  home, 
which  happened  often,  I  passed  almost  whole  days  in  this  occupation. 
M.  de  Voltaire  found  me  there  one  day,  and,  knowing  me  to  be  at- 
tached to  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  an  inmate  of  the  house,  he  made 
no  objections.     He  examined  my  writing,  and  I  perceived  that  he 
found  it  to  his  mind.     From  that  time  I  did  not  fail,  whenever  there 
was  nothing  for  me  to  do,  to  go  to  his  secretary's  room,  where  I  was 
entertained  and  instructed,  and  took  pains  to  improve  my  handwrit- 
ing. 

"  Nevertheless,  at  the  end  of  some  months,  I  had  to  renounce  this 
occupation,  as  well  as  the  house  of  Madame  du  Chatelet.  I  left  that 
lady,  perhaps  too  lightly,  piqued  at  an  injustice  she  had  done  my  sis- 
ter, whom  I  obliged  also  to  leave.  Some  weeks  after,  there  was  in 
her  house  a  more  considerable  defection.  It  was  the  season  of  the 
royal  residence  at  Fontainebleau,  when  all  the  court  was  there ;  ma- 


524  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

dame,  also,  as  usual,  having  tabouret  with  the  queen,  and  being  of  her 
play.  At  the  moment  when  she  was  making  her  preparations  to  go 
to  Fontainebleau,  all  her  servants  left  her,  under  pretext  that  living 
was  dearer  in  that  city  than  at  Paris ;  complaining,  too,  of  her  econ- 
omy and  the  smallness  of  their  wnges,  and  saying  that  they  could 
easily  find  better  pay  elsewhere.  There  remained  to  her  only  a  femme 
de  c/mmbre,  whom  she  had  taken  but  a  few  days  before.  She  had  had 
all  M.  de  Voltaire's  servants  put  upon  the  same  footing  as  her  own, 
because  she  governed  him ;  and  they  left,  also,  according  to  an  under- 
standing among  themselves.  As  a  climax  of  misfortune,  his  secretary 
was  taken  from  him  by  a  violent  inflammatory  disease.  This  circum- 
stance, doubtless,  made  him  remember  me  in  the  midst  of  the  incon- 
venient desertion,  and,  having  informed  himself  of  my  abode,  he  sent 
for  me  to  come  and  speak  to  him.  He  asked  me  if  I  was  willing  to 
go  with  him  to  Fontainebleau,  and  serve  him  as  secretary  during  the 
time  of  his  residence  there.  Being  satisfied  with  the  terms  he  offered, 
and  charmed  also  to  see  the  court,  which  I  had  not  seen  since  my 
coming  to  Paris,  I  acquiesced  willingly  in  his  request.  Thus  it  was 
that  I  entered  the  service  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  I  expected  to  remain  in 
it  only  during  the  stay  at  Fontainebleau  ;  but  various  circumstances, 
unforeseen,  deranged  my  projects,  and  made  me  take  the  resolution  to 
stay  with  him  as  long  as  he  wished.  I  did  not  leave  him  until  long 
after,  during  his  residence  at  the  court  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  as  I 
shall  relate  by  and  by.  I  can  but  applaud  myself  for  having  entered 
his  service.  I  was  overwhelmed  with  his  bounties  and  honored  with 
his  entire  confidence,  as  I  had  previously  been  with  that  of  Madame 
du  Chatelet." 

LONGCHAMP'S    FIRST    DAy's    WORK    FOR    VOLTAIRE. 

"  M.  de  Voltaire  and  Madame  du  Chatelet  were  lodged  at  Fontaine- 
bleau at  the  house  of  the  Duke  de  Richelieu.  All  their  servants  had 
left  them  the  evening  before  their  departure,  giving  as  pretext  the  in- 
sufficiency of  their  wages.  Madame,  in  haste  to  set  out,  took  at  once 
and  without  inquiry  the  first  servants  who  presented  themselves.  M. 
de  Voltaire  had  none.  I  arrived  the  third  day  after  them  at  Fon- 
tainebleau, at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  All  was  perfectly  quiet  in 
the  mansion.  After  sleeping  some  hours,  I  went  into  the  chamber  of 
M.  de  Voltaire,  who  was  just  waking.  He  had  been  unable  to  find  any 
servant.  Delighted  to  see  me,  he  begged  me  to  light  his  fire,  the 
cold  being  somewhat  severe  that  day.  That  done,  being  still  in  bed, 
he  told  me,  to  bring  him  a  portfolio,  which  I  did  not  immediately 
perceive.  As  I  delayed  satisfying  him,  not  knowing  where  he  had 
put  that  portfolio,  he  threw  oS.  his  bed-clothes,  got  half  out  of  bed, 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT   FROM   COURT.  625 

and,  pointing  with  his  finger  to  a  chair  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room, 
he  cried  out  with  force  and  emphasis,  '  There  it  is  !  Don't  you  see  it  ? ' 
A  little  confused  by  the  tone  of  his  exclamation,  I  seized  the  portfolio, 
and  placed  it  in  his  hands.  He  took  from  it  a  copy-book  which  con- 
tained the  beginning  of  his  *  Essay  upon  the  Manners  and  Arts  of 
Nations,'  and  said  to  me  that,  after  I  had  looked  about  for  a  lackey? 
I  could  employ  the  rest  of  the  day  in  copying  its  contents  upon  some 
fine  Dutch  paper  which  he  had  brought  for  the  purpose.  He  then 
asked  me  if  I  knew  how  to  dress  his  wig.  I  answered,  Yes.  Then 
he  got  up,  put  on  his  shoes  and  stockings,  and  shaved.  Meanwhile, 
I  took  his  wig,  dressed  it  as  well  as  I  could,  and  powdered  it  with 
white  powder.  When  he  came  to  put  it  on  it  was  not  dressed  to 
his  mind  ;  he  laughed  at  his  new  wig  dresser,  took  the  wig,  shook  out 
the  powder  with  violence,  and  told  me  to  give  him  a  comb.  Having 
given  him  the  one  I  had  in  my  hand,  which  was  small,  although  it 
had  two  blades,  he  threw  it  upon  the  floor,  saying  it  was  a  large 
comb  that  he  wanted.  Upon  my  telling  him  that  I  had  no  other  for 
the  moment,  he  told  me  to  pick  it  up.  I  did  so,  and  gave  it  to  him 
again.  He  passed  it  several  times  through  his  wig,  and,  after  having 
put  it  thoroughly  out  of  order,  he  tossed  it  upon  his  head.  I  helped 
him  on  with  his  coat,  and  he  went  to  breakfast  with  Madame  du 
Chatelet. 

"  This  debut  into  the  service  of  M.  de  Voltaire  did  not  appear  to 
me  to  promise  well  for  the  future,  and  I  applauded  my  good  sense  in 
having  engaged  only  for  their  stay  at  Fontainebleau.  His  abruptness 
displeased  me,  and  I  took  it  at  first  for  brutality  ;  but  I  soon  perceived 
that  it  was  in  him  only  an  extreme  vivacity  of  character,  which  burst 
forth  upon  slight  occasion,  and  was  almost  instantly  calm  again.  I 
saw  more  and  more,  as  time  went  on,  that,  while  his  vivacities  were 
transient  and,  so  to  speak,  superficial,  his  indulgence  and  goodness 
were  qualities  solid  and  durable. 

"A  moment  after,  I  went  out  of  the  house  in  search  of  a  servant  for 
him.  I  went  all  over  the  city  without  being  able  to  find  one  that 
would  suit  him.  After  having  dined,  I  returned,  and  set  myself  to 
copying  the  manuscript  he  had  left  me." 

SUDDEN  DEPARTURE  FROM  FONTAINEBLEAU. 

"  Neither  madame  nor  he  came  home  during  the  day.  I  sat  up  for 
them  until  half  past  one  in  the  morning,  not  doubting  that  they  were 
at  the  queen's  play,  which  was  prolonged  sometimes  far  into  the  niglit. 
At  that  hour  I  saw  them  returning  together,  both  looking  sad  and 
troubled.  On  arriving,  madame  told  me  to  find  her  servants,  and 
tell  her  coachman  to  put  the  horses  at  once  to  the  carriage,  as  she 


626  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

wished  to  leave  immediately.  At  that  hour,  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  it  was  difficult  to  get  together  her  people,  who  were  lodged  in 
various  parts  of  the  city.  There  were  only  in  the  house  her  femme 
de  chambre  and  myself.  I  went  at  once  in  search  of  the  servants. 
The  coachman,  wTiom  I  awoke  first,  made  haste  to  harness  the  horses 
to  the  carriage.  When  all  was  ready,  they  got  into  it  with  the  femme 
de  chamhre,  who  had  only  time  to  pack  two  or  three  parcels,  which  she 
took  with  her.     They  left  Fontainebleau  before  the  break  of  day. 

"  This  order  of  Madame  du  ChPitelet  surjarised  me  much  ;  I  could 
not  guess  the  true  cause  of  so  precipitate  a  departure.  I  only  learned 
it  at  Paris,  when  I  had  returned  to  her  house  there.  That  night  the 
play  at  the  queen's  table  had  been  very  stormy,  and  Madame  du  Chatelet 
had  been  particularly  unfortunate.  Before  setting  out  for  Fontaine- 
bleau, she  had  got  together  as  much  money  as  she  could.  The  strong- 
box of  her  agent  was  but  slenderly  furnished,  and  she  had  been  able 
to  draw  from  it  only  four  hundred  and  odd  louis.  M.  de  Voltaire, 
who  did  not  play,  had  two  hundred  in  his  purse.  The  first  day  of 
their  arrival,  madame  lost  her  four  hundred  louis.  On  returning  to 
her  lodging,  she  dispatched  a  lackey  as  a  courier  with  letters  to  her 
agent  and  some  friends,  in  order  to  get  a  supjjly.  Meanwhile,  M.  de 
Voltaire  gave  the  marquise  the  two  hundred  louis  which  he  had 
brought  with  him.  At  the  second  session  these  took  the  same  road 
as  the  others  with  great  velocity,  but  not  without  some  remonstrances 
on  the  part  of  the  lender.  The  lackey  returned  the  next  day,  bring- 
ing two  hundred  louis,  which  her  agent,  M.  de  la  Croix,  had  borrowed 
at  high  interest,  and  a  hundred  and  eighty  more,  which  her  friend, 
Mademoiselle  du  Thil,  had  joined  to  them.  With  this  sum  madame 
returned  to  the  queen's  play.  Alas!  her  louis  d'or  only  appeai'ed  upon 
the  table  to  disappear.  Piqued  by  such  constant  ill  luck,  and  believing 
it  must  cease  at  last,  she  determined  to  make  good  her  losses,  and  con- 
tinued to  play  very  high,  going  in  debt  for  the  sums  lost.  She  lost 
eighty-four  thousand  francs  with  inconceivable  intrepidity.  The  play 
over,  M.  de  Voltaire,  who  was  at  her  side,  alarmed  at  so  considerable 
a  loss,  said  to  her  in  English  that  her  absorption  in  the  game  had  pre- 
vented her  from  perceiving  that  she  was  playing  with  cheats.  These 
words,  though  pronounced  in  a  low  tone,  were  overheard  by  some 
one,  and  repeated.  Madame  remarked  it,  and  told  M.  de  Voltaire, 
for  whom  that  could  have  some  disagreeable  consequences.  They  with- 
drew quietly,  and,  having  taken  the  resolution  to  return  at  once  to 
Paris,  they  set  out  from  Fontainebleau  the  same  night. 

"  I  remained  behind  alone  to  gather  and  pack  their  effects,  and  con- 
vey them  to  Valvin,  where  I  wis  to  take  the  water-coach  \le  coche 
d'eau']  and  bring  the  whole  to  Paris.     Madame's  carriage  took  the 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT  FROM  COURT.  527 

high-road.  On  arrriving  near  Essonne,  a  wheel  of  the  carriage  was 
broken,  and  luckily  it  was  almost  opposite  the  house  of  a  wheelwright, 
who  repaired  the  accident  by  substituting  another  wheel.  The  work 
finished,  it  was  necessary  to  pay  this  wheelwright,  but  it  so  happened 
that  neither  the  masters  nor  their  servants  had  a  single  sou.  The 
man,  not  knowing  them,  refused  to  let  tliem  go  before  he  was  paid. 
At  that  moment,  by  another  happy  accident,  an  acquaintance  passed, 
coming  from  Paris  in  a  post-chaise.  Madame  du  Chatelet,  having  gone 
up  to  the  chaise,  saw  in  it  with  great  joy  an  old  friend  of  her  house. 
She  informed  him  of  her  embarrassment,  which  he  ended  at  once  by 
handing  to  madame  the  wherewithal  to  pay  the  debt  and  the  expenses. 
of  the  journey." 

TWO    MONTHS    TS    HIDING    AT    SCEAUX. 

"  When  they  were  near  Paris,  M.  de  Voltaire  alighted,  and  went  to 
a  village  a  little  way  from  the  high-road.  There  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  Duchess  du  Maine,  and  had  it  carried  by  a  peasant,  who  was 
to  wait  for  an  answer.  In  this  letter,  M.  de  Voltaire  informed  the 
princess  of  his  adventure,  and  prayed  her  to  give  him  at  Sceaux,  where 
she  then  was,  an  asylum  in  which  he  could  be  concealed  from  his  ene- 
mies. Madame  du  Maine  took  his  request  in  good  j^art.  A  messen- 
ger was  sent  him  with  a  note,  informing  him  tluit,  on  his  arrival,  he 
would  find  at  the  gate  of  the  chateau  M.  du  Plessis,  a  confidential  olii- 
cer,  who  would  conduct  him  to  private  rooms,  which  would  be  made 
ready  to  receive  him  in  the  manner  he  desired.  He  waited  until  after 
dark  before  going  to  Sceaux,  and  there  he  found  M.  du  Plessis,  who 
conducted  him,  by  a  secret  staircase,  to  a  remote  suite  of  rooms,  which 
was  precisely  what  he  wanted.  It  was  from  the  depths  of  this  retreat 
that  he  went  down  every  night  to  the  chamber  of  the  Duchess  du 
Maine,  after  she  was  in  bed  and  her  servants  had  retired.  A  single 
footman,  who  was  in  her  confidence,  then  set  a  little  table  by  her 
bedside,  and  brought  M.  de  Voltaire's  supper.  The  princess  took 
great  pleasure  in  seeing  him  and  talking  with  him.  He  amused  her 
by  the  gayety  of  his  conversation,  and  she  instructed  him  by  telling 
him  many  old  court  anecdotes  which  he  did  not  know.  Sometimes, 
after  the  repast,  he  read  to  her  a  tale  or  a  little  romance  which  he  had 
written  during  the  day  on  purpose  to  divert  her.  Thus  were  com- 
posed 'Bahouc,'  'Memnon,'  '  Scarmentado,'  '  Micromegas,'  '  Zadig,'  of 
which  he  wrote  every  day  some  chapters. 

"  On  her  part,  Madame  du  Chatelet  was  shut  up  at  home  for  nearly 
six  weeks,  occupied  in  making  arrangements  for  the  payment  of  her 

gambling  debts Two    months    passed    before  M.  de  Voltaire 

dared  show  himself  or  leave  his  rooms  in  the  day-time.     At  last,  Ma- 


628  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

dame  du  Cliatelet  succeeded  in  appeasing  the  players  wlio  liad  com- 
plained of  the  words  of  M.  de  Voltaire Madame  du  Chatelet 

hastened  herself  to  carry  this  news  to  Sceaux,  where  Madame  du 
Maine  retained  her.  M.  de  Voltaire  then  went  out  of  his  mysterious 
asylum,  and  appeared  at  the  court  of  the  princess,  where  a  number  of 
amiable  and  accomplished  persons  were  always  to  be  found.  From 
that  moment  the  company  were  occupied  in  arranging  festivals  and 
divertisements  of  all  kinds  for  Madame  la  Duchesse  in  which  every 
one  took  part." 

LONGCHAMP   JOINS    HIS    MASTER   AT    SCEAUX. 

"  After  the  departure,  so  precipitate,  of  INIadame  du  Chatelet  and  M. 
de  Voltaire,  I  hastened  to  execute  their  ordei's.  The  packages  were 
immediately  made.  I  hired  a  wagon  to  transport  them  to  Valvin, 
where  I  had  them  placed  upon  the  water-coach,  which  did  not  arrive 
at  Paris  until  pretty  late  in  the  evening.  Upon  reaching  the  mansion, 
I  found  Madame  du  Chatelet,  and  was  surprised  not  to  see  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. Madame  told  me  that  he  was  not  in  Paris,  which  redoubled  my 
surprise.  She  then  explained  to  me  the  late  proceedings,  and  the  res- 
olution which  M.  de  Voltaire  had  taken  not  to  show  himself  for  some 
time,  and  mentioned  the  retreat  which  he  had  chosen.  The  next  day  I 
received  a  note  from  him,  in  which  he  told  me  to  go  to  him  at  Sceaux, 
and  to  bring  with  me  in  a  hackney-coach  the  little  traveling  bureau 
in  which  he  usually  kept  his  unfinished  manuscripts,  and  which  was 
then  in  his  parlor.  He  warned  me  not  to  arrive  before  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  because  at  that  hour  I  should  find  some  one  at  the  gate 
of  the  chateau  who  would  guide  me  to  his  apartments,  and  who 
would  cause  to  be  carried  in  the  little  article  of  furniture  of  which  he 
was  in  need.  I  executed  his  orders  to  the  letter,  and  was  conducted 
to  a  suite  in  the  second  story  of  the  chateau,  looking  out  upon  the  gar- 
dens and  a  court-yard.  In  order  to  conceal  who  inhabited  those  roonas, 
the  shutters  remained  closed  even  in  the  day-time. 

"  Here  I  passed  nearly  two  months  with  M.  de  Voltaire,  without 
seeing  the  sun,  unless  by  stealth,  or  when  I  escaped  on  the  sly  to  do 
some  errand  in  the  village.  During  the  first  days  of  my  confinement 
in  this  new  kind  of  prison,  where  I  had  scarcely  anything  to  do,  I 
slept  a  great  part  of  the  day  ;  for  idleness  was  to  me  a  punishment. 
It  was  necessary  that  we  should  not  be  seen.  I  kept  close  all  day, 
and  did  not  go  down  until  eleven  in  the  evening  to  sup  with  one  of  the 
footmen  of  tlie  chateau,  to  whom  I  had  been  recommended.  I  usually 
prolonged  this  repast  until  one  or  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  as  it 
was  the  only  one  I  took  in  the  twenty-four  hours.  M.  de  Voltaire  did 
not  descend  to  the  room  of  Madame  la  Duchesse  until  every  one  else 


PRECIPITATE  FLIGHT  FROM   COURT.  529 

had  gone  to  bed,  and  did  not  return  to  liis  own  until  a  little  before 
daylight. 

"  This  indefatigable  man,  to  whom  an  idle  life  was  still  more  insup- 
portable than  to  me,  laid  in  an  ample  supply  of  candles,  by  the  aid  of 
which  he  wrote  all  the  time  when  he  was  not  asleep ;  and  he  slept  not 
more  than  five  or  six  hours,  at  most.  He  made  me  copy  the  tales 
with  which  he  was  to  regale  Madame  du  Maine  every  evening.  From 
time  to  time  he  gave  me  some  commissions  for  Paris.  la  that  case,  I 
both  went  out  and  came  back  by  night,  and  he  remained  alone  during 
the  day.  To  remedy  this  inconvenience,  he  told  me  one  day  to  bring 
him  from  Paris  a  little  Italian  boy,  whom  he  would  employ  to  do  his 
errands,  so  that  I  could  remain  always  with  him,  and  said  that  he 
would  give  him  a  place  to  sleep  in  a  closet  next  to  the  room  I  occupied, 
where  there  was  a  camp-bed.  I  easily  found  such  a  boy  as  he  wanted, 
a  child  of  ten  or  eleven  years,  sufficiently  intelligent,  full  of  candor, 
and  M.  de  Voltaire  was  well  satisfied  with  him. 

"  Here  is  a  proof  of  his  ingenuous  character.  One  day  I  brought 
some  money  from  Paris  for  IM.  de  Voltaire,  —  a  purse  containing  two 
hundred  louis  d'or.  Upon  receiving  it  he  put  a  part  of  the  gold  into 
a  purse  which  he  had  in  his  pocket,  closed  the  other  again,  and  placed 
it  in  a  little  cupboard  at  the  side  of  his  chamber.  In  the  same  cup- 
board was  a  pair  of  new  shoes,  which  M.  de  Voltaire  had  brought, 
but  not  yet  worn,  because  they  were  too  narrow.  Some  days  after, 
when  I  was  gone  out  upon  an  errand,  he  took  a  fancy  to  wear  those 
shoes.  He  called  Antoine,  told  him  to  take  them  from  the  cupboard 
and  carry  them  to  a  shoemaker  in  the  village  to  be  stretched  upon  a 
last.  The  boy  took  the  shoes,  put  them  under  his  arm,  and  started. 
He  crossed  the  park,  which  was  covered  with  a  foot  of  snow,  slipped, 
plunged  in,  fell  down,  putting  the  pair  of  shoes  now  under  one  arm, 
now  under  the  other.  He  reached  the  village  at  last,  and  entered  the 
shop  of  a  shoemaker,  who,  late  as  it  was,  was  still  at  work.  The  man 
took  his  last  and  tried  to  get  it  into  one  of  the  shoes,  which  he  thought 
at  first  was  hobnailed,  since  it  seemed  so  heavy.  Unable  to  get  in 
the  last,  he  shook  the  shoe  over  a  table,  when  there  fell  from  it  a 
purse  full  of  louis  d'or.  Antoine,  no  less  surprised  than  himself,  had 
nevertheless  the  presence  of  mind  to  take  the  purse,  and  said,  cry- 
ing, that  it  was  all  a  trick  to  prove  his  honesty.  The  man  comforted 
him  as  best  he  could,  and,  the  work  being  done,  the  little  fellow  paid 
him  and  returned.  On  seeing  me,  Antoine  said,  with  the  tears  in  his 
eyes,  that  he  was  an  honest  boy,  incapable  of  doing  wrong,  and  that 
it  was  unfair  to  test  him  in  tliat  manner,  and  a  great  piece  of  good 
luck  for  him  that  the  money  had  not  fallen  out  on  the  way.  I  con- 
soled him,  praised  his  honesty,  and  told  liim  that  it  was  only  an  eflfect 
VOL.  I.  34 


530  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

of  the  distraction  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  who  had  thrown  this  money  into 
the  cupboard  without  looking,  and  had  not  thought  of  it  again. 

"  I  took  the  purse  to  M.  de  Voltaire,  and  related  Antoine's  advent- 
ure, which  confirmed  the  good  opinion  he  had  of  him.  He  put  the 
purse  upon  his  table,  and  told  me  we  could  both  go  to  supper.  For 
his  part,  he  seldom  went  down  to  Madame  du  Maine  until  between 
one  and  two  in  the  morning,  and  sometimes  I  returned  before  he  did, 
each  of  us  having  a  key  to  the  rooms.  This  time  I  came  back  from 
supper  later  than  usual.  While  I  was  at  supper,  M.  de  Voltaire, 
wishing  to  know  if  the  money  was  right,  spread  it  out  upon  that  bu- 
reau of  his  which  was  covered  with  a  green  cloth  ;  after  which  he 
went  away,  forgetting  to  lock  it  up,  and  leaving  two  lighted  candles 
upon  the  table,  two  others  upon  the  mantel-piece,  and  a  door  open. 
While  going  up-stairs  I  was  astonished  to  see  light  in  the  corridor,  and 
still  more  astonished  to  find  all  the  doors  open,  the  gold  spread  out, 
and  M.  de  Voltaire  absent.  It  frightened  me,  and  a  little  after  the 
idea  occurred  to  me  to  count  the  sum,  in  order  to  ascertain  if  it  was 
all  there.  Upon  his  return  I  remonstrated  upon  his  imprudence,  add- 
ing that,  for  my  own  satisfaction,  I  had  counted  the  coins  upon  the 
table,  and  there  were  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  louis.  '  That  is  my 
count,'  said  he.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  actual  need  of  the  money. 
He  said,  '  No.'  '  Very  well,  then,'  said  I,  '  permit  me  to  be  the  guard- 
ian of  this  sum,  that  at  least  I  may  be  sure  of  its  not  having  a  third 
adventure  before  the  day  is  over.'     He  laughed  and  consented. 

"  Meanwhile,  we  began  to  be  tired  of  our  retreat.  M.  de  Voltaire 
took  no  exercise,  slept  little,  employed  all  his  time  in  writing,  not  by 
the  feeble  light  of  a  lamp,  but  by  that  of  wax  candles,  no  less  heating 
to  the  blood.  His  health  was  visibly  impaired.  For  nearly  two 
months  we  led  this  solitary  life  at  Sceaux,  when,  one  fine  day,  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  arrived,  and  informed  Madame  du  Maine  thai,  there 
was  no  longer  any  reason  why  M.  de  Voltaire  should  not  show  him- 
self in  public.  Madame  du  Maine  urged  them  to  remain  at  Sceaux 
and  join  the  brilliant  company  already  assembled.  The  divertise- 
ments  were  varied  every  day  :  comedy,  opera,  balls,  concerts.  Among 
other  comedies  they  played  '  The  Prude  ; '  and  before  the  repre- 
sentation M.  de  Voltaire  came  upon  the  stage  and  pronounced  a 
new  prologue  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  Madame  du  Chatelet,  who 
was  as  good  a  musician  as  actress,  acquitted  herself  to  perfection  in 
the  role  of  Isse.  She  played  still  better,  if  possible,  the  part  of  Fan- 
chon,  in  the  '  Originals,'  —  a  comedy  by  M.  de  Voltaire,  written  and 
played  previously  at  Cirey.  This  character  seemed  to  be  made  ex- 
pressly for  her ;  her  vivacity,  her  cheerfulness,  her  gayety,  were  dis- 
played after  Nature's  own  self.  Ballets,  also,  were  executed  by  the 
first  dancers  of  the  opera. 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT  FROM   COURT.  531 

"  Among  so  many  varied  pleasures  must  be  mentioned  the  reading 
of  several  novelties,  in  verse  and  in  prose,  which  were  given  in  the 
drawing-room  when  the  company  assembled  before  dinner,  Madame 
du  Maine  had  made  known  to  M.  de  Voltaire  her  desire  that  he  should 
communicate  to  her  little  court  those  tales  and  romances  which  had 
so  much  amused  her  every  evening.  M.  de  Voltaire  obeyed  her. 
He  knew  as  well  how  to  read  as  to  compose.  Those  little  works 
were  found  delightful,  and  every  one  pressed  him  not  to  deprive  the 
public  of  them.  He  objected  that  those  ti'ifles  of  society  would  not 
bear  the  light  of  publicity,  and  did  not  deserve  to  appear  in  it.  He 
was  obliged  at  length  to  promise  that,  on  his  return  to  Paris,  he  would 
think  of  having  them  printed. 

"  These  amusements  continued  more  than  three  weeks,  which  seemed 
to  pass  as  quickly  as  a  fairy  dream.  IMadame  du  Chatelet  then  took 
leave  of  Madame  du  Maine,  thanked  her  for  all  she  had  done  for  them, 
and  returned  to  Paris." 

VOLTAIRE    CIRCUMVENTS    A    PUBLISHER. 

"  On  reaching  home,  after  three  months'  absence,  M.  de  Voltaire, 
unwilling  to  fail  in  keeping  the  promise  he  had  given  at  Sceaux,  re- 
solved to  publish  some  of  the  little  works  which  had  been  asked  for 
there.  He  first  made  choice  of  the  romance  of  '  Zadig,'  one  of  the 
most  striking,  and  his  intention  was  not  to  let  the  public  have  it  be- 
fore Madame  du  Maine  and  her  society  had  enjoyed  the  first  reading, 
nor  before  he  had  sent  copies  to  all  his  friends,  —  a  thing  not  devoid 
of  difficulty,  even  if  he  had  it  printed  on  his  own  account.  Plis 
experience  instructed  him  on  this  point.  He  wished,  on  the  present 
occasion,  not  to  be  the  dupe  of  publishers,  and,  to  attain  that  end,  this 
is  what  he  contrived.     He  sent  for  M.  Prault,  who  had  previously 

published  pretty  editions  of  several  of  his  works He  asked  M. 

Prault  how  much  he  would  charge  for  an  edition  of  a  thousand  copies 
of  the  little  romance  of  '  Zadig.'  The  price  not  suiting  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, he  said  the  printing  would  be  put  off  to  another  time.  M.  Prault, 
intending  to  print  extra  copies  for  his  own  advantage,  returned  the 
next  day,  and  was  not  ashamed  to  reduce  his  price  more  than  a  third, 
pretending  that  he  could  economize  a  little  both  in  the  workmanship 
and  in  the  paper.  M.  de  Voltaire  said  that  he  wished  his  work  printed 
in  the  best  manner  and  upon  fine  paper,  a  sample  of  which  he  showed, 
at  the  same  time  designating  the  form  and  type.  He  said  that  he 
would  himself  revise  the  last  proof,  and  he  requested  that  the  sheets 
should  be  sent  to  him  as  soon  as  they  came  from  the  press.  M.  Prault 
consenting,  M.  de  Voltaire  gave  him  one  half  of  the  romance  of  '  Za- 
dig,'  and  told  him  that  while  that  part  was  in  the  press  he  would 


532  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

revise  the  other  half  with  care,  and  perhaps  add  something  to  it.  The 
bargain  was  carried  out.  M.  de  Voltaire,  having  received  the  first 
printed  sheet,  easily  calculated  that  the  last  chapter  of  tlie  part  which 
M.  Prault  was  printing  would  end  with  a  certain  page. 

"  The  next  day  he  sent  for  one  Machuel,  a  Rouen  printer,  whom  he 
knew  to  be  in  Paris,  and  proposed  to  liim  also  to  print  the  romance  on 
the  author's  account.  This  printer  took  the  job  at  a  lower  price  than 
M.  Prault.  M.  de  Voltaire,  alleging  that  he  wished  to  make  some 
changes  in  the  first  part  of  the  work,  gave  him  the  second  half,  and 
told  him  the  number  of  his  first  printed  page.  When  all  was  finished, 
and  the  sheets  of  both  halves  had  been  brought  in,  he  saw  with  pleas- 
ure that  the  two  parts  agreed  perfectly  in  type  and  paper.  The  two 
publishers  having  no  more  eopy,  and  calling  to  get  the  remainder  of 
the  work,  he  put  them  off  for  some  days  on  various  pretexts.  Mean- 
while, he  charged  me  to  seek  out  some  women  to  fold  and  sew  the 
sheets,  and  to  buy  some  elegantly  colored  paper  with  which  to  cover 
the  volumes.  I  at  once  found  in  the  quarter  Saint-Jacques  all  that  he 
wanted,  and  brought  back  with  me  two  women,  who  in  less  than  three 
days  folded,  sewed,  and  covered  all  the  copies.  He  ordered  me  to 
make  forthwith  a  package  of  two  hundred  copies  for  Madame  du 
Maine,  and  to  put  in  envelopes  an  infinite  number  of  others.  He 
dictated  to  me  the  addresses,  which  I  wrote  upon  the  envelopes ;  being 
those  of  all  his  friends  and  even  his  acquaintances,  as  well  those  liv- 
ing in  Paris  as  in  the  provinces.  That  done,  all  were  sent  ofE  the 
same  day  by  express,  by  mail,  and  by  the  coaches.  The  next  day 
'  Zadig'  was  a  subject  of  conversation  in  all  Paris. 

"  The  two  booksellers,  astounded,  ran  to  the  .house  of  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, where  they  poured  forth  complaints  and  reproaches,  and  asked 
payment  of  the  sum  agreed  upon.  He  told  them  that,  having  heard  a 
rumor  of  their  printing  more  than  the  prescribed  number  of  sheets, 
and  fearing  lest  copies  might  be  circulated  among  the  public  before 
his  friends  had  seen  the  work,  which  would  have  frustrated  his  design, 
he  had  been  able  to  think  of  no  better  means  of  preventing  it  than  the 
little  stratagem  he  had  employed.  He  paid  them  for  the  work  they 
had  done,  and  even  added  something  as  a  mark  of  his  satisfaction  with 
the  excellent  style  in  which  the  printing  was  executed.  He  added,  by 
way  of  completing  their  consolation,  that  they  could  increase  their 
profits  by  each  printing  his  half  and  exchanging  sheets  with  the  other, 
so  as  to  make  complete  copies;  or,  if  they  preferred  it,  each  might  set 
in  type  the  other  half,  and  publish  an  edition  of  his  own.  They  put  a 
good  face  upon  the  matter,  begged  him  to  continue  his  favor  toward 
them,  and,  I  believe,  acted  upon  his  advice ;  for  new  editions  of  '  Za- 
dig '  immediately  appeared  both  in  France  and  in  foreign  countries." 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT  FROM  COURT.  533 


A    WINTER    JOURNEY    FROM    PARIS    TO    CIREr. 

"  On  her  return  from  Sceaux,  Madame  du  Chatelet,  either  to  forget 
her  losses  or  merely  to  economize,  took  the  resolution  to  go  with  M. 
de  Voltaire  and  pass  the  rest  of  the  winter  at  her  estate  of  Cirey  in 
Champagne.  She  preferred  to  travel  by  night.  It  was  the  month  of 
January ;  the  earth  was  covered  with  snow,  and  it  was  freezing  very 
hard.  JMadanie  had  caused  to  be  made  ready  all  the  traps  which  us- 
ually accompanied  her  in  her  travels.  Her  old  carriage  was  loaded 
like  a  coach,  and  it  was  drawn  by  post-horses.  Alter  Madame  du 
Chatelet  and  M.  de  Voltaire  were  well  wedged  in  side  by  side  in  the 
cariiage,  they  placed  the  femme  de  chamhre  on  the  front  seat,  with  the 
bandboxes  and  the  various  effects  of  her  mistress.  Two  lackeys  were 
posted  behind,  and  we  got  upon  the  road  towards  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening. 

"I  rode  on  before  as  postilion,  that  they  might  find  horses  ready 
for  them,  and  not  have  to  wait  for  relays.  They  were  to  make  one 
stop  for  rest  at  La  Chapelle,  a  chateau  thi-ee  leagues  beyond  Nangis, 
belonging  to  M.  de  Chauvelin,  where  I  was  to  arrive  before  them,  to 
have  a  supper  prepai-ed  and  to  light  a  fire  in  their  rooms.  I  did  not  wait 
for  them  at  the  post-houses,  but  kept  on  in  advance,  according  to  their 
orders.  It  was  an  hour  after  midnight  when  I  reached  the  post-house 
of  Nangis.  It  was  the  festival  of  the  place,  and  the  postilions,  not  ex- 
pecting any  one  at  that  hour  and  in  such  weather,  had  gone  to  divert 
themselves  at  a  ball  at  the  other  end  of  the  town.  It  was  in  vain, 
tlierefore,  that  I  cracked  my  whip  and  shouted  for  tlie  door  to  open. 
No  one  responded.  I  dismounted,  and  knocked  with  all  my  strength 
with  the  heel  of  my  boot.  At  last,  roused  by  this  noise,  a  neighbor, 
putting  his  head  out  of  the  window,  told  me  that  there  was  no  one  at 
home,  and  that  all  the  postilions  were  gone  to  the  ball.  I  asked  him 
if  I  could  not  hire  some  one  to  run  thither  and  get  the  postilions  at 
once.  He  offered  to  go  himself,  and  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
he  returned  with  two  postilions,  which  was  the  number  re(piired  for 
the  carriages.  The  time  thus  lost  seemed  to  me  sutRcient  to  allow  for 
the  arrival  of  the  carriage,  and  I  was  a  little  uneasy  at  the  delay.  I 
hesitated  a  moment  whether  to  go  on  or  return  to  find  them  ;  but  reflect- 
ing that  our  travelers  would  be  very  much  dissatisfied  if,  on  arriving 
at  La  Chapelle,  they  should  not  find  their  orders  exactly  executed,  I 
determined  to  continue  my  journey  ;  and  so  much  the  more  as  there  re- 
mained three  long  leagues  to  go,  by  a  cross-road  with  which  I  was  not 
acquainted. 

*'  Unable  to  procure  a  guide,  I  had  the  road  explained  to  me  several 
times.     I  was  told  that,  in  going  out  of  this  town,  I  had  only  to  follow 


534  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  high-road  to  the  first  left-hand  turning.  From  that  point  the  white 
horse  they  gave  me,  which  knew  that  road  perfectly,  would  serve  me 
as  a  guide,  and  with  the  bridle  upon  his  neck  would  take  me  straio-lit 
to  La  Chapelle.  I  followed  these  directions,  and  after  an  hour  and  a 
half  found  myself  opposite  to  the  gate  of  a  chateau,  where  the  horse 
stopped  of  his  own  accord.  The  concierge,  who  expected  no  one,  was 
gone  to  bed  in  the  interior  of  the  chateau,  which  was  separated  from  the 
gate-way  by  a  vast  court-yard.  In  vain,  therefore,  I  called  and  shouted  ; 
uo  one  replied.  Then,  leading  my  horse  by  the  bridle,  I  endeavored 
to  go  round  the  chateau,  to  see  if  I  could  make  myself  heard  better  at 
some  other  place.  I  came  at  last  to  a  little  door  where  there  was 
a  bell,  which  I  rang  several  times.  I  saw  with  pleasure  that  I  was 
heard  ;  a  gardener  came  and  asked  me  who  I  was  and  what  I  wanted. 
I  having  answered  him,  he  went  to  wake  the  concierge,  who  soon  came 
and  let  me  in.  He  immediately  roused  the  servants,  lighted  a  great 
fire  in  the  kitchen  and  fires  in  the  chambers.  Some  pigeons  were 
brought  and  a  chicken,  which  were  immediately  prepared  and  put  down 
to  roast.  They  added  everything  which  they  could  find  suitable  to 
satisfy  travelers,  whose  appetite  ought  to  be  well  diposed.  Neverthe- 
less, despite  all  the  time  thus  employed,  they  did  not  arrive.  The  day 
was  about  to  dawn,  and,  my  uneasiness  increasing  at  every  moment,  I 
decided  to  return  to  Nangis,  in  order  to  discover  what  could  have  hap- 
pened to  them.  I  mounted,  and  set  out  from  the  chateau  toward  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  had  gone  some  hundreds  of  paces  when  I 
perceived  a  carriage  coming  towards  me  very  slowly,  which  I  soon  rec- 
ognized to  be  that  of  Madame  du  Chatelet.  When  I  had  ridden  up, 
they  soon  told  me  the  cause  of  their  delay  ;  and  the  story  was  related 
afterwards  to  me  in  detail  by  ihefemme  de  chambre,  and  confirmed  by 
M.  de  Voltaire  himself. 

"  About  half-way  to  the  village  of  Nangis,  the  hinder  spi'ing  of  the 
carriage  broke  and  let  the  carriage  down  upon  the  road,  upon  the  side 
where  M.  Voltaire  was  seated.  Madame  and  hev  femme  fell  upon  him, 
with  all  their  bundles  and  bandboxes,  which  were  loosely  piled  on 
the  front  seat  on  each  side  of  the  woman,  and  which,  following  natural 
laws,  were  precipitated  toward  the  corner  where  M.  de  Voltaire  was 
compressed.  Half  stifled  under  such  a  load,  he  uttered  piercing  cries, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  change  his  position.  He  had  to  remain  as  he 
was  until  the  two  lackeys,  one  of  whom  was  hurt  by  his  tumble,  came 
up  with  the  postilions  to  unload  the  carriage.  First,  they  drew  out 
all  the  bundles,  then  the  women,  then  M.  de  Voltaire.  They  could 
get  them  out  only  by  the  door  of  the  carriage  which  was  uppermost ; 
and  hence,  one  of  the  lackeys  and  a  postilion,  having  climbed  upon  the 
body  of  the  carriage,  drew  them  out  as  from  a  well,  seizing  them  by 


. 


PRECIPITATE  FLIGHT  FROM   COURT.  535 

the  first  members  which  presented  themselves,  arms  or  legs,  and  passed 
them  into  the  hands  of  their  comrades  below,  who  put  them  on  the 
ground  ;  for  there  was  neither  step  nor  stool  by  which  they  could  be 
assisted  to  descend.  It  was  then  the  question  how  to  raise  the  car- 
riage and  see  what  had  caused  its  overturn.  These  four  men  were  not 
strong  enough  to  do  it,  so  overloaded  was  the  roof  with  baggage,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  dispatch  a  postilion  on  horseback  for  help  in  the 
next  village,  a  mile  and  a  half  distant. 

"  While  he  was  gone,  M.  de  Voltaire  and  madame  were  seated  side  by 
side  upon  the  cushions  of  the  carriage,  which  had  been  drawn  out  and 
placed  upon  the  road,  that  was  covered  with  snow  ;  and  there,  almost 
benumbed  with  cold  notwithstanding  their  furs,  they  admired  the 
beauty  of  the  heavens.  It  is  true,  the  sky  was  perfectly  clear,  the  stars 
shone  with  the  utmost  brilliancy,  the  whole  horizon  was  in  view ;  no 
house,  no  tree,  concealing  from  them  the  least  part  of  it.  It  is  known 
that  astronomy  was  always  one  of  the  favorite  studies  of  our  two  phi- 
losophers. Ravished  by  the  magnificent  spectacle  displayed  above 
and  around  them,  they  discoursed,  shivering,  upon  the  nature  and  the 
movements  of  the  stars  and  upon  the  destination  of  so  many  immense 
globes  scattered  in  space.  They  wanted  nothing  but  telescopes  to  be 
perfectly  hap{)y.  Their  minds  being  thus  lost  in  the  depths  of  the 
skies,  they  were  no  longer  conscious  of  their  disagreeable  position  on 
the  eartli,  or  rather  upon  the  snow,  and  in  the  midst  of  fragments  of  ice. 

"  Their  learned  contemplation  and  discourse  were  interrupted  only 
by  the  return  of  the  postilion,  who  brought  with  him  four  men,  fur- 
nished with  cord,  tools,  and  a  false  spring.  The  carriage  being  set 
upright,  the  real  cause  of  the  accident  was  perceived,  and  they  mended 
it  as  well  as  they  could  with  the  materials  they  had  brouglit  with  them. 
Twelve  francs  were  given  them  when  their  work  was  done  ;  and 
they  returned  toward  their  village,  little  content  with  this  sum,  and 
grumbling  at  it. 

"The  carriage  went  on  again,  but  had  scarcely  gone  fifty  paces 
when  the  cords,  not  being  strong  enough,  became  loose  and  partly 
broken,  and  the  vehicle  came  down  a  second  time,  but  without  over- 
turning, which  rendered  this  new  break-down  much  less  disagreeable 
to  our  travelers. 

"  Some  one  ran  quickly  after  the  workmen  who  had  just  left.  They, 
however,  did  not  wish  to  return.  They  were  brought  back  by  force  of 
promises  that  they  should  be  better  paid.  With  the  assistance  of  the 
postilions,  they  raised  the  body  of  the  coach  with  levers,  and  mended  it 
more  strongly,  without  deranging  the  interior  of  the  vehicle.  For 
greater  safety,  they  proposed  to  these  workmen  to  go  with  tliem  as  far 
as  Nangis,  which  they  did,  and  the  carriage  arrived  there  without  other 


536  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

accident.  This  time  the  men  were  liberally  paid,  and  they  went  home 
well  satisfied.  The  spring  was  solidly  repaired  by  a  blacksmith  of 
that  town,  but  the  body  of  the  vehicle  was  so  badly  damaged  that  the 
blacksmith  advised  them  to  go  no  faster  than  a  walk,  if  they  wished 
to  prevent  accidents  ;  and  it  was  so  that  they  went  nine  miles  before 
arriving  at  a  good  harbor. 

*'  Having  reached  the  chateau,  they  warmed  themselves  thoroughly 
before  a  large  fire,  which  was  not  less  necessary  to  them  than  nourish- 
ment. After  having  supped,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  breakfasted, 
for  it  was  daylight,  they  withdrew  to  their  rooms,  where  good  beds  had 
been  prej^ared  for  them,  and  they  slept  very  well  till  late  in  the 
afternoon.  M.  de  Voltaire,  having  got  up,  ordered  me-  to  get  workmen 
to  repair  the  body  of  the  carriage,  v/hich  proved  to  be  in  such  bad 
order  that  it  took  two  whole  days  to  put  it  in  tolerable  condition.  On 
the  third  day  we  left  La  Chapelle,  and  arrived  at  lengtli,  without  new 
delay  or  accident,  at  Cirey,  the  estate  of  Madame  du  Chatelet." 

MADAME    PROJECTS    A    PRIVATE    EDITION    OF    "  LA    PUCELLE." 

"  Madame  da  Chatelet  had  long  had  a  copy  of  '  La  Pucelle,' 
written  with  her  own  hand.  Her  friends,  both  men  and  women,  often 
importuned  her  to  read  portions  of  it  to  them.  This  trouble,  from 
which  she  wished  to  be  freed,  suggested  to  her  an  odd  idea,  which 
was  to  print  the  poem  secretly  at  her  chateau  of  Cirey  during  her 
sojourn  there  in  the  following  year,  1749.  Her  design  was  to  have 
but  a  very  small  number  of  copies  printed,  to  be  distributed  among 
those  of  her  friends  whom  she  knew  to  be  discreei.  Counting  in 
advance  upon  the  acquiescence  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  fhe  began,  even 
in  the  winter,  to  prepare  quietly  for  the  execution  of  her  project. 
In  order  to  confine  the  secret  to  fewer  persons,  she  resolved  to  take 
part  in  the  work  herself,  with  two  faithful  workmen,  one  of  whom 
was  to  instruct  her  in  making  up  the  pages.  This  was  an  adroit 
and  intelligent  printer  named  Lambert,  who  for  a  number  of  years 
enjoyed  the  confidence  of  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  of  M.  de  Voltaire. 
He  performed  well  the  commissions  which  they  gave  him,  and  he  be- 
came their  usual  purveyor  of  forbidden  books.  Madame  charged  him 
to  select  a  comrade  for  the  following  spring,  and  the  conditions  were 
arranged  to  their  satisfaction. 

"  Lambert  bought  two  fonts  of  new  type,  well  assorted,  from  a 
type-founder  of  his  acquaintance,  who  gave  him  pretty  long  credit  and 
took  notes  in  payment.  He  procured  also  some  forms  and  a  press, 
and  the  other  necessary  articles.  The  whole  was  packed  and  depos- 
ited with  a  commissioner  of  transportation,  who,  upon  the  first  advice, 
was  to  send   it    to  Bar-sur-Aube,  whence  the  servants   of    Madame 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT   FROM    COURT.  537 

du  ChAtelet  would  have  conveyed  it  to  Cirey.  According  to  the  pro- 
ject, Madame  la  Marquise  was  to  preside  at  the  case,  that  is  to  say, 
at  the  type-setting,  with  the  aid  of  Lambert,  who,  with  the  assistance 
of  his  companion,  was  to  work  the  press.  They  counted  upon  M.  de 
Voltaire  as  proof-reader. 

"  All  being  thus  ver}^  well  arranged,  there  remained  only  one  tri- 
fling difficulty,  whicli  madame  flattered  herself  to  be  able  to  overcome 
easily  :  it  was  merely  to  get  the  author's  consent.  He  ought  to  have 
been  told  of  it  the  first,  but  he  was  told  the  last.  She  ended  where 
she  ought  to  have  begun  ;  for  madame  must  have  known  that  the 
operation  could  not  go  on  in  the  chateau  without  M.  de  Voltaire's 
knowing  it.  She  cherislied  the  idea  that  to  oblige  her  he  would  con 
sent  to  a  thing  which  would  remain  secret  between  them  and  a  very 
small  number  of  sure  friends. 

"  She  was  deceived.  Scarcely  had  she  spoken  a  word  of  it,  when  he 
rejected  the  idea.  At  first  he  thought  it  was  only  a  jest,  but  when 
he  saw  that  the  scheme  was  serious,  and  that  preparations  were  already 
made,  he  was  much  excited,  and  dwelt  with  energy  upon  the  conse- 
quences of  such  an  enterprise  ;  among  others,  the  danger  of  seeing 
the  book  fall  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  whether  by  indiscretion  or 
by  accident,  and  so  reach  the  public,  which  would  expose  both  of  them 
to  serious  inconveniences  and  bitter  relets.  She  could  not  resist  the 
force  of  those  reasons.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  printing  '  La 
Pucelle.'  She  explained  the  matter  afterwards  to  Lambert;  the 
materials,  which  were  still  at  Paris,  were  given  back  to  the  dealers, 
who  consented  to  receive  them,  on  being  indemnified  for  their  trouble. 
Lambert  was  recompensed  for  his  pains,  and  took  upon  himself  to 
satisfy  the  comrade  whom  he  had  engaged." 

MADAME    LA    MARQUISE    WILL    NOT    BE    IMPOSED    UPOX. 

"  Madame  la  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  who  had  much  enjoyed  her  last 
visit  to  the  court  of  the  King  of  Poland,  and  had  promised  that  prince 
to  return  the  next  summer,  was  well  disposed  to  keep  her  word,  and 
took,  with  M.  de  Voltaire,  the  resolution  to  go  thither  without  stop- 
ping on  the  road,  and  the  carriage  was  therefore  furnished  with  some 
provisions.  But  on  reaching  Clullons-sur-Marne,  madame  felt  herself 
slightly  indisposed,  and  made  the  postilion  stop  opposite  the  Bell  Inn. 
There,  while  they  changed  horses,  she  had  a  fancy  to  take  a  bowl  of 
broth.  The  landlady,  having  ascertained  who  it  was  she  had  the 
honor  to  serve,  came  to  the  carriage  door,  having  a  napkin  under  her 
arm,  a  porcelain  plate  in  her  hand  upon  a  silver  tray,  and  a  porringer 
of  silver  containing  the  broth.  While  madame  was  taking  it  the 
horses  were  already  put  to,  and  ready  to  start.     I  hastened  to  carry 


538  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

back  the  plate  and  the  other  articles  to  the  landlady,  and  asked  her 
how  much  we  had  to  pay.  '  One  louis,'  said  she.  I  was  almost  pros- 
trated at  this  word  ;  then,  recovering  from  my  astonishment,  I  cried 
out  upon  the  enormity  of  the  price,  and  said  to  her  that  I  would  have 
thouf^ht  a  crown,  or  even  four  francs,  too  much.  She  declared  she 
could  not  abate  one  sou.  Upon  this  I  went  to  explain  the  matter  to 
madame,  who  was  of  my  opinion.  The  landlady,  who  had  followed 
me,  then  approached  the  carriage  door,  and  upon  madame  represent- 
ino-  to  her  how  excessive  her  demand  was  she  replied  that  she  was 
not  accustomed  to  have  her  charges  disputed,  and  that  it  was  her  fixed 
price.  I  took  the  liberty  to  remark  that  with  a  crown's  worth  of 
meat  I  could  make  several  bowls  of  broth,  and  the  meat  would  still 
remain  over  and  above.  Consequently  I  believed  I  should  be  paying 
her  well  in  offering  her  that  crown.  She  persisted,  declaring  that  all 
the  persons  who  did  her  the  honor  to  alight  at  her  house,  whether 
they  took  only  a  fresh  egg,  a  bowl  of  broth,  or  a  dinner,  invariably 
paid  the  same  price.  '  Very  well,'  replied  I,  '  we  have  not  alighted  ; 
Madame  la  Marquise  has  not  left  the  carriage,  and  has  not  set  foot 
upon  the  threshold  of  your  door.' 

"M.  de  Voltaire,  joining  in  the  colloquy,  said  to  the  landlady, 
'  Your  method,  madame,  seems  to  me  as  new  as  it  is  strange,  and  I 
believe  it  very  little  advantageous  to  your  house  ;  for,  in  fact,  all  trav- 
elers are  not  in  a  condition  to  give  twenty-four  francs  for  a  bowl  of 
broth,  and  for  one  or  two  customers  who  fall,  without  knowing  it,  into 
your  i\et  you  are  likely  to  lose  a  hundred  others."  Thereupon  the 
woman  began  to  be  augry  and  to  dispute  with  a  loud  voice,  and  at 
the  noise  she  made  one,  two,  three,  four  neighbors  and  more  left 
their  shops  and  came  to  hear  what  was  going  on.  Soon  a  numerous 
populace  ran  from  all  directions  and  grouped  themselves  around  the 
carriage,  clamoring  and  wishing  to  know  what  was  the  matter.  All 
asked  and  answered  at  the  same  time  ;  it  seemed  as  if  a  sedition  was 
going  to  burst  forth  in  the  town.  All  that  we  could  discern  amid 
so  many  squeaking  voices  was  that  the  landlady  was  in  the  right. 
M.  de  Voltaire  saw  plainly  that  there  was  no  means  of  gaining  the 
suit  against  so  powerful  a  i)arty.  He  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  nec- 
essary to  give  it  up,  and  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  like  Harlequin,  that 
is,  by  paying.  This  I  did,  and  we  set  out,  not  without  exciting  the 
laughter  of  all  that  crowd.  Madame  du  Chatelet  swore  well  that,  no 
matter  how  exhausted  she  might  be  in  traveling  from  Paris  to  Lor- 
raine, she  would  never  stop  in  that  cursed  town,  and  the  broth  of 
Chulons-sur-Marne  was  not  rubbed  out  of  her  tablets." 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT  FROM   COURT.  539 

VOLTAIRE    AND    LONGCHAMP    MAKE    A    JOURNEY    TO    PARIS. 

"  Fifteen  days  after  their  arrival  at  Luneville  they  learned  by  a 
letter  from  M.  d'Argental  that  the  French  actors  were  preparing 
to  give  immediately  the  first  representation  of  '  Semiramis.'  They 
vrould  have  both  liked  to  be  present;  bnt  madame,  fearing  to  dis- 
please the  King  of  Poland,  consented  to  remain  at  Luneville  and  to 
let  M.  de  Voltaire  set  out  alone  for  Paris.  He  took  only  me  with  him, 
and  placed  me  on  the  front  seat  of  the  post-chaise.  As  he  had  time 
to  spare,  he  resolved  to  visit  on  the  way  some  persons  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  particularly  to  go  through  Reims,  to  see  M.  de  Pouilli,  his 
old  college  friend,  who  had  invited  him  many  a  time.  We  started,  and 
our  first  bait  was  at  the  country-house  of  the  Bishop  of  Chrilons-sur- 
Marne,  a  colleague  of  M.  de  Voltaire  at  the  French  Academy,  and  his 
friend.  He  was  very  well  received,  and  passed  three  days  there  ;  and 
even  on  the  fourth  that  prelate  consented  to  his  leaving  with  reluc- 
tance, because  the  weather  was  threatening.  In  fact,  at  the  end  of 
some  hours  the  sky  was  covered  with  very  black  and  frightful  clouds  ; 
whirlwinds  of  dust  almost  hid  the  road  from  view  ;  we  were  dazzled 
and  deafened  by  the  lightning  and  thunder.  Half-way  between  Cha- 
lons and  Reims  this  storm  ended  by  a  rain  so  abundant  that  the  foot- 
path and  ditches  on  each  side  of  the  road  were  both  overflowed.  M. 
de  Voltaire,  fearing  to  be  overturned  and  drowned,  made  the  chaise 
stop  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  which,  with  the  adjoining  fields,  was 
one  sheet  of  water.  He  attentively  considered  this  spectacle,  and 
suffered  much  to  see  the  postilion  and  his  horses  drenched  while  we 
were  sheltered.  At  length,  the  weather  improving  and  the  waters 
having  subsided,  we  could  continue  our  journey,  and  at  night-fall 
reached  Reims.  M.  de  Voltaire  was  expected,  as  he  had  sent  a  note 
from  Chfdons  to  M.  de  Pouilli,  asking  hospitality. 

"  A  grand  repast  was  prepared,  to  which  had  been  invited  several 
friends  of  M.  de  Voltaire  ;  and  they  made  it  a  festival  to  meet  that 
celebrated  man.  The  beginning  of  the  supper  was  noisy  enough, 
every  one  talking  at  once.  The  guests  interrupted  one  another,  and 
M.  de  Voltaire  kept  on  eating  and  said  not  a  word.  At  last,  the  de- 
sire to  hear  him  speak  induced  a  moment  of  silence.  M.  de  Pouilli, 
then  alluding  to  the  dangers  which  M.  de  Voltaire  had  run  upon  the 
road,  asked  liim  some  questions  on  tlie  subject.  Replying,  he  entered 
into  details,  and  described  the  storm  he  had  encountered  in  a  man- 
ner so  pathetic  that  the  whole  company  listened  with  the  greatest  in- 
terest, scarcely  daring  to  breathe  for  fear  of  interrupting  him,  or  to 
lose  a  word  of  what  he  was  saying.  His  narrative,  however,  was 
quite  natural,  without  emphasis  and  without  gesture.     The  truth  of 


540  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  images,  the  simplicity  of  his  words,  their  variety  and  suitableness, 
sufficed  to  excite  the  highest  degree  of  emotion.  Even  I,  who  had 
been  witness  of  the  event,  and  who  heard  him  relate  it  with  the  same 
attention  as  the  guests,  believed  for  the  moment  that  I  was  again 
upon  the  high-road  and  in  the  midst  of  the  inundation.  After  supper, 
when  the  company  was  gone,  M.  de  Voltaire,  before  going  to  bed, 
talked  again  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  M.  de,  Pouilli,  who  felicitated 
himself  upon  having  spoken  of  the  storm.  '  For  my  part,'  he  added, 
'  I  was  in  no  degree  astonished  at  the  impression  which  you  made 
upon  them  ;  for  I  assure  you  that  never  did  the  description  of  a  tem- 
pest give  me  more  affright  and  at  the  same  time  more  pleasure.' 

"  The  next  morning  we  took  the  road  to  Paris,  where  we  arrived 
in  the  evening." 

THE    PLOT    AGAINST    THE    NEW    TRAGEDT. 

"  The  actors  had  already  had  one  rehearsal  of  the  tragedy  of  '  Se- 
miramis.'  They  rehearsed  it  several  times  in  the  presence  of  the  au- 
thor, who  gave  them  some  useful  hints,  from  which  they  profited.  Al- 
though he  was  well  enough  satisfied  with  their  ability,  and  could  count 
upon  their  zeal,  and  had  elaborated  his  tragedy  with  much  care,  he 
was  far  from  daring  to  depend  upon  its  success.  He  was  not  ignorant 
that  Piron,  who  thought  himself  much  superior  to  him,  and  was  jeal- 
ous of  his  successes,  had  fomented  a  powerful  cabal  against  '  Semira- 
mis,'  and  that  to  this  band  were  rallying  the  soldiers  of  Corbulon,  as 
he  used  to  call  the  partisans  of  Crubillon,  in  allusion  to  a  passage  in 
one  of  his  pieces.  The  latter  were  in  truth  much  less  sincere  admirers 
of  their  hero  than  jealous  enemies  of  Voltaire  ;  and  as  M.  de  Crebillon 
had  also  written  a  '  Semiramis,'  they  assumed  that  no  other  author 
should  dare  to  make  a  better  one. 

"To  counterbalance  this  league,  M.  de  Voltaire  had  recourse  to  a 
measure  little  worthy  of  him,  indeed,  but  which  he  believed  necessary, 
and  which,  in  fact,  was  not  without  effect.  He  bought  a  number  of 
pit  tickets,  which  he  gave  to  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  who  in 
turn  distributed  them  among  their  friends.  Thieriot,  Lambert,  the 
Abbe  de  La  Mare,  and  others,  whose  devotion  he  knew,  acquitted 
themselves  very  well  of  this  commission.  I  had  also  my  share  of  tick- 
ets to  <:ive  away,  and  I  placed  them  in  good  hands ;  by  which  I  mean 
hands  capable  of  clapping  well  and  at  the  proper  places.  The  day  of 
the  first  representation  arrivea  (August  29,  1748).  The  champions 
on  both  sides  did  not  fail  to  be  present  on  the  field  of  battle,  armed 
cap-a-pie,  among  whom  I  held  firmly  my  rank  of  foot-soldier.  Each 
party  was  confident  of  victory,  and  the  struggle  was  tlierefore  hard 
and  painful.     Even  during  the  first  scene  there  was  excitement  in  the 


I, 


PEECIPITATE   FLIGHT  FROM  COURT.  541 

pit;  some  bravos,  some  murmurs,  were  heard,  aud  even  some  faint 
hisses.  But  from  the  start  the  applause  at  least  balanced  the  signs  of 
discontent,  and  finished  by  stifling  them.  The  piece  held  its  own, 
ended  very  well,  aud  its  success  seemed  not  equivocal The  an- 
tagonists of  M.  de  Voltaire  renewed  their  attempts  on  the  following 
nights,  but  they  served  only  the  better  to  assure  his  triumph.  Piron, 
to  console  himself  for  the  defeat  of  his  party,  employed  iiis  usual  re- 
source, and  assailed  '  Semiramis '  with  spiteful  epigrams  which  did  it 
harm." 

THE    AUTHOR    OF     "  SEMIRAMIS  "     GOES    IN    DISGUISE     TO    HEAR     THE 
VERDICT    OF    THE    CAFE    DE    PROCOPE. 

"M.  de  Voltaire,  who  loved  always  to  correct  and  improve  his 
works,  desired  to  know  more  particularly  and  with  his  own  ears  what 
was  said  for  and  against  his  tragedy,  and  he  thought  he  could  do  this 
nowhere  better  than  at  the  Cafe  de  Procope,  which  was  called  also  the 
Cave  of  Procope,  because  it  was  very  dark,  even  in  broad  daylight, 
and  by  no  means  well  lighted  in  the  evening,  and  because  poets  were 
often  seen  there,  gaunt  and  pallid,  who  looked  like  ghosts.  In  this 
cafe,  which  is  opposite  the  theatre,  had  been  held  for  more  than  sixty 
years  the  tribunal  of  the  self-styled  Aristarques,  who  imagined  them- 
selves judges  in  the  last  resort  of  pieces,  authors,  and  actors.  M.  de 
Voltaire  wished  to  appear  there  disguised  and  entirely  incognito.  It 
was  at  the  end  of  the  play  that  the  judges  used  to  begin  wliat  they 
called  their  grand  sessions. 

"  On  the  day  of  the  second  representation  of  '  Semiramis,'  he  bor- 
rowed the  garb  of  an  ecclesiastic.  He  put  on  a  cassock,  with  a  long 
cloak,  black  stockings,  a  girdle,  bands,  and,  that  notliing  might  be 
wanting,  a  breviary.  Upon  his  head  he  wore  an  ample  wig  without 
powder,  ill  dressed,  which  covered  more  than  half  his  cheeks,  and  left 
visible  scarcely  anytiiing  of  his  face  except  the  end  of  a  long  nose. 
This  was  surmounted  by  a  large  three-cornered  hat,  much  dilapidated. 
It  was  in  this  costume  that  the  author  of  '  Semiramis '  went  on  foot  to 
the  Cafe  de  Procope,  where  he  established  himself  in  a  corner,  and, 
while  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  performance,  called  for  a  cup  of  tea,  a 
roll,  and  a  newspaper.  He  had  not  long  to  wait  before  the  frequenters 
of  the  parterre  and  of  the  cafe  arrived.  There  were  present  persons 
of  both  the  parties,  and  they  entered  at  once  into  the  discussion  of  the 
new  tragedy.  His  partisans  and  his  adversaries  pleaded  with  warmth, 
and  gave  reasons  for  their  judgment.  Some  impartial  persons  of- 
fered their  opinion,  and  repeated  beautiful  verses  of  the  piece. 

"All  this  time  M.  de  Voltaire,  with  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  his 
head  bent  over  the  newspaper  which  he  pretended  to  read,  listened  to 


542  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

the  debates,  profited  by  the  reasonable  remarks,  and  suffered  much 
from  hearing  absurd  observations  witliout  being  able  to  repl}',  which 
put  him  into  bad  humor.  In  this  way,  during  an  hour  and  a  half, 
he  had  the  courage  and  patience  to  hear  people  reason  and  gossip  upon 
'  Semiramis  '  without  uttering  one  word.  At  length,  all  these  pretended 
arbiters  of  the  renown  of  authors  having  retired  without  converting 
one  another,  M.  de  Voltaire  left  also,  took  a  cab  in  the  Rue  Mazarine, 
and  reached  home  at  eleven  o'clock.  Although  I  knew  his  disguise, 
I  confess  that  I  was  again  struck  and  almost  frightened  on  seeing  him 
accoutred  as  he  was.  I  took  him  for  a  spectre  of  Ninus  who  was  ap- 
pearing to  me,  or,  at  least,  for  one  of  those  Hiberian  arguers  arrived 
at  the  end  of  their  career,  after  having  exhausted  themselves  in  syllo- 
gisms in  the  schools.  I  helped  him  shed  all  these  traps,  which  I  took 
back  the  next  day  to  their  true  owner.  After  having  made  some  cor- 
rections in  several  of  the  parts,  and  given  them  to  the  actors,  M.  de 
Voltaire  did  not  wish  to  remain  in  Paris,  and  no  longer  doubting  the 
success  of  his  piece  he  set  out  satisfied,  and  eager  to  rejoin  Madame 
du  Chutelet  at  Luneville." 

VOLTAIRE  RESCUES  HIMSELF  FROM  DEATH  AND  A  COUNTRY  DOCTOR. 

"  M.  de  Voltaire,  when  he  arrived  at  Paris  (in  August,  1748),  did 
not  enjoy  very  good  health.  A  slow  fever  wore  upon  him  severely. 
Rest  and  his  usual  regimen  could  have  calmed  and  even  cured  him, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  rest  in  Paris,  where  he  was  always  in 
agitation  :  by  day,  visits  and  continual  running  about;  at  night,  writ- 
ing, kept  up  almost  until  morning.  He  scarcely  reserved  some  hours 
for  sleep.  His  fever  increased.  Although  extremely  fatigued  and 
suffering  much,  he  persisted  not  less  in  setting  out  for  Luneville. 

"  At  Chrdons,  where  we  stopped  at  the  post-house,  it  was  necessary 
to  rest,  for  it  was  impossible  for  M.  de  Voltaire  to  go  further.  He 
had  no  longer  the  strength  to  stand  or  talk,  and  I  was  obliged  to  carry 
him  from  his  carriage  to  a  bed.  Fearing  that  this  was  the  beginning 
of  a  dangerous  disease,  1  thought  it  my  duty  to  notify  the  Bishop  and 
the  Intendant  of  Chrdons,  who  had  always  testified  much  regard  for 
him.  Both  came  to  see  him  the  same  day,  and  ^iressed  him  to  let  him- 
self be  carried  to  one  of  tlieir  houses,  that  he  might  be  the  better  cared 
for.  M.  de  Voltaire  excused  himself  from  accepting  their  offer,  assur- 
ing them  that  he  already  felt  himself  better  since  he  had  taken  some 
repose  in  bed.  The  magistrate  insisted  upon  sending  him  his  own 
doctor,  who,  in  fact,  came  to  see  him  in  the  evening,  examined  him, 
and  prescribed  bleeding  and  various  medicaments.  M.  de  Voltaire 
listened  to  him  with  much  patience,  and  replied  to  his  questions  as 
laconically  as  possible  ;  but  when  the  doctor  was  gone,  he  told  me 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT  FROM   COURT.  543 

that  he  should  follow  none  of  his  directions,  for  he  knew  how  to  man- 
age himself  as  well  in  sickness  as  in  health,  and  he  should  continue  to 
be  his  own  doctor,  as  he  had  always  been.  The  bishop  and  the  mag- 
istrate then  urged  that,  at  least,  some  of  their  servants  should  come 
and  take  care  of  him.  This  oifer  he  also  declined,  saying  that  a  woman 
was  already  engaged  to  watch  with  him  and  make  his  broth,  and  that 
I  should  serve  as  her  assistant  and  do  his  errands  out-of-doors. 

"  M.  de  Voltaire  had  eaten  nothing  since  we  left  Paris.  As  night 
was  coming  on,  I  proposed  to  him  to  take  some  broth,  to  which  he  con- 
sented ;  but  scarcely  had  it  touched  his  lips,  when  he  pushed  it  away 
and  shook  his  head,  intimating  that  he  did  not  wish  any.  Then,  with 
a  voice  scarcely  audible,  he  entreated  me  not  to  abandon  him,  and  to 
remain  near  him  in  order  to  cast  a  little  earth  upon  his  body  when  he 
had  breathed  his  last.  I  was  surprised  and  still  more  alarmed  at  these 
words,  and  indeed  not  without  reason,  for  that  night  was  one  of  his 
worst.  He  had  a  burning  fever  accompanied  by  delirium,  and  when 
the  fit  was  passed  there  was  scarcely  any  life  left  in  him.  Next  morn- 
ing he  was  again  visited  by  the  bishop,  the  intendant,  and  the  doctor. 
Those  gentlemen  could  scarcely  get  a  word  from  him,  and  they  saw 
him  steadily  refuse  all  the  drugs  the  doctor  tried  to  make  him  swallow. 
On  leaving  him  they  did  not  conceal  their  apprehension  of  seeing  him 
perish,  and  hasten  his  end  by  his  obstinacy  in  refusing  to  take  what 
they  recommended  for  his  relief. 

"  When  they  were  gone  he  made  me  come  near  his  bed,  and  putting 
into  my  hand  a  purse  full  of  gold,  which  had  been  in  the  drawer  of 
his  night-table,  he  said  to  me  that  if  he  yielded  to  his  malady  his  in- 
tention was  that  I  should  keep  that  sum,  which  was  all  the  good  he 
could  do  me  at  the  moment ;  but  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  escaped  the 
danger  which  threatened  him,  I  was  to  give  him  back  the  purse,  on  ac- 
count of  the  immediate  use  he  should  then  have  for  it,  and  he  would 
supply  its  place  by  a  recompense  with  which  I  should  be  better  satis- 
fied. He  prayed  me  not  to  abandon  him  in  his  present  situation,  and 
to  remain  with  him  to  the  last  in  order  to  close  his  eyes.  I  replied 
with  tears  that  I  would  never  leave  him,  that  his  orders  were  sacred  to 
me,  that  I  hojjed  still  to  see  him  restored  to  health,  and  that  that  was 
all  I  desired.  I  assured  him  he  could  count  upon  the  sincerity  of  my 
words,  for  I  loved  him,  and  was  truly  attached  to  him. 

"■  On  our  arrival  at  Chrdons  I  had,  unknown  to  him,  written  a  few 
lines  to  Madame  Denis  and  to  Madame  du  Chatelet,  to  inform  them 
of  his  sickness  and  of  the  place  where  he  was.  Nevertheless,  as  soon 
as  he  had  come  to  himself,  I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  think  I  had  bet- 
ter send  for  madarae  his  niece  to  come  and  bear  him  company.  He 
was  then  on  ill  terms  with  her,  and  had  not  seen  her  for  some  time. 


544  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

He  absolutely  forbade  me  to  write  to  her.  However,  I  received  every 
day  letters  from  Madame  Denis,  and  I  gave  her  an  account  of  her 
uncle's  health  by  every  courier  who  left  for  Paris,  as  also  Madame 
du  Chatelet  by  the  couriers  who  went  to  Strasbourg  by  way  of  Lune- 
ville. 

'•  As  he  continued  to  be  unwilling  to  take  any  solid  food  whatever, 
confining  himself  to  certain  drinks,  such  as  weak  tea,  toast  and  water, 
and  a  veiy  refreshing  kind  of  barley  water,  slightly  aperient,  he  be- 
came so  weak  that  he  could  scarcely  move  any  of  his  limbs.  At 
length,  in  the  evening  of  the  sixth  day  after  our  arrival  at  Chalons, 
he  astounded  me  by  telling  me  to  prepare  everything  for  his  depart- 
ure, to  pay  what  he  owed,  pack  his  trunk,  and  make  arrangements 
for  leaving  Chalons  very  early  in  the  morning,  since  he  did  not  wish 
to  die  there.  He  added  that  if  at  the  break  of  day  he  was  still  alive, 
whatever  his  condition  might  be,  I  had  only  to  carry  him  to  his  post- 
chaise,  and  convey  him  to  Luneville.  He  dictated  to  me  some  lines 
to  inform  the  bishop  and  the  intendant  of  his  sudden  resolution,  and 
to  thank  them  for  their  attentions.  The  landlord  was  charijed  to  for- 
ward  those  notes  to  them  after  our  departure.  Then  he  rested,  and  I 
occupied  myself  with  the  execution  of  his  orders. 

"The  next  day,  all  being  ready  and  the  horses  harnessed,  I  carried 
him  out  to  his  post-chaise,  wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  a  coun- 
terpane over  it.  I  seated  myself  in  front  of  him,  so  as  not  to  lose  him 
from  my  sight,  and  to  hold  him  up  if  he  should  fall  forward  ;  to  which 
precaution  I  added  that  of  tying  together  the  hand-straps  at  the  sides, 
which  formed  a  kind  of  barrier  to  keep  him  in  place.  It  was  in  this 
way  that  I  brought  him  from  Chalons  to  Saint-Dizier  [about  thirty 
miles],  without  his  uttering  a  single  word.  He  was  so  weak,  so  pale, 
that  I  dreaded  not  to  be  able  to  get  him  to  Luneville  alive.  While 
we  were  changing  horses  at  Saint-Dizier,  he  seemed  as  if  to  wake 
from  a  sleep  all  of  a  sudden,  and  asked  me  where  we  were  and  what 
o'clock  it  was.  Having  answered  these  questions,  I  asked  him  some 
questions  in  my  turn,  but  he  made  no  answer,  and  appeared  to  relapse 
into  unconsciousness.     We  resumed  our  journey. 

"  Between  Saint-Dizier  and  Bar-le-Duc  we  met  a  lackey,  whom  Ma- 
dame la  Marquise  du  Chatelet  had  sent  on  a  post-horse  to.  Chalons,  to 
ascertain  more  particularly  the  condition  of  the  sick  man,  and  to  see 
if  he  could  bear  transportation  to  Luneville.  I  mentioned  this  to  M. 
de  Voltaire.  It  appeared  to  give  him  pleasure  and  restored  him  a  lit- 
tle. The  lackey  returned,  and  served  us  as  a  courier  to  have  horses 
got  ready  upon  the  road,  so  that  we  arrived  at  Nancy  in  the  evening 
before  the  closing  of  the  gates.  We  alighted  at  the  post-house,  where 
the  lackey  of  madame  waited  upon  us  again,  to  know  if  there  were 


PRECIPITATE   FLIGHT  FROM   COURT.  545 

any  orders  for  liim.  M.  cle  Voltaire  charged  me  to  tell  him  to  push  on 
to  Luneville,  so  that  madame  should  get  news  of  him  the  sooner.  As 
to  himself,  he  could  go  no  further  without  much  risk.  Exhausted 
with  fatigue  and  inanition,  I  put  him  into  a  good  bed  on  arriving, 
and  had  some  broth  brouijht  to  him.  He  drank  the  whole  of  it 
with  relish.  Having  myself  no  less  need  of  nourishment,  for  I  had 
scarcely  broken  my  fast  all  day,  I  had  my  supper  brought  into  his 
chamber,  where  also  I  had  a  camp-bed  put  for  myself  ;  for  I  re- 
mained with  him  night  and  day.  Seeing  the  avidity  with  which  I 
devoured  what  they  brought  me,  he  said,  '  How  happy  you  are  to  have 
a  stomach  and  a  digestion  ! '  He  had  seen  disappear  half  a  leg  of 
mutton  and  a  side-dish.  They  brought  me,  besides,  two  roast  thrushes 
and  a  dozen  red-throats,  which  latter  are  the  ortolans  of  the  country, 
and  they  were  then  in  season.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  not  tempted  to 
suck  one  of  those  little  birds.  '  Yes,'  said  he,  '  I  would  like  to  try 
one.'  I  picked  out  two  of  the  fattest,  and  carried  them  with  a  morsel 
of  the  crumb  of  bread  to  his  bed,  where,  half  reclining,  he  ate  a  good 
part  of  them  with  pleasure.  Then  he  asked  for  a  glass  of  wine  mixed 
with  a  third  of  water,  which  also  he  swallowed  briskly  enough.  After 
that  he  told  me  he  felt  some  inclination  to  sleep,  and  that  after  I  had 
finished  my  supper  I  had  only  to  go  to  bed.  The  next  morning,  as 
soon  as  he  awoke,  we  were  to  start  for  Luneville. 

"  Then,  putting  his  head  upon  the  pillow,  he  soon  fell  asleep.  For 
my  part,  I  slept  very  well  until  five  in  the  morning.  By  six  all  the 
arrangements  for  our  departure  were  made,  and  I  only  waited  for  M. 
de  Voltaire  to  wake.  I  saw  him  in  a  sleep  so  profound  that  nothing 
could  have  induced  me  to  interrupt  it.  I  went  from  time  to  time  to 
look  at  him,  thoroughly  resolved  to  let  him  wake  of  his  own  accord. 
I  was  far  from  expecting  that  that  moment  would  not  arrive  until 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  At  that  hour  he  drew  aside  his  cur- 
tains, saying  that  he  had  slept  well.  He  had  slept  better  and  longer 
than  he  supposed.  I  helped  him  get  up  and  dress.  That  sleep  had 
refreshed  him,  and  I  found  him  improved.  After  he  had  taken  some 
broth  with  bread  in  it,  we  set  out  at  five  in  the  afternoon  for  Lune- 
ville [ten  miles  distant],  where  we  arrived  easily  the  same  evening. 
There  M.  de  Voltaire  found  himself  much  better,  and  the  presence  of 
Madame  du  Chatelet  completed  his  recovery.  In  a  few  days  she 
made  him  resume  all  his  usual  gayety,  and  forget  the  tribulations  he 
had  experienced  on  his  journey  from  Paris. 

"Thus  it  was  that  M.  de  Voltaire  cured  himself  of  a  malady  which 
probably  would  have  had  graver  consequences  if  he  had  delivered  him- 
self up  to  the  -^sculapius  of  Chalons.  His  principle  was  that  our 
health  often  depends  upon  ourselves  ;  that  its  three  pivots  are  sobriety, 

VOL.  I.  35 


546  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

temperance  in  all  things,  and  moderate  exercise  ;  that  in  almost  all  the 
diseases,  which  are  not  the  result  of  very  serious  accidents,  or  of  rad- 
ical vitiation  of  the  internal  organs,  it  suffices  to  aid  nature,  which  is 
endeavoring  to  restore  us ;  that  it  is  necessary  to  confine  ourselves  to 
a  diet  more  or  less  severe  and  prolonged,  suitable  liquid  nourishment, 
and  other  simple  means.  In  this  manner  I  always  saw  him  regulate 
his  conduct  as  long  as  I  lived  with  him." 

The  events  related  in  these  passages  from  the  graphic  Long- 
champ  occurred  between  January,  1746,  and  September,  1748, 
when  Voltaire  rejonied  madame  at  the  mimic  court  of  Stan- 
islas, at  Luneville.  One  of  his  "  anecdotes,"  which  he  tells 
circumstantially,  and  with  a  great  number  of  names  of  persons 
concerned,  has  a  particular  interest  for  Americans,  because  it 
relates  to  the  Count  d'Estaing,  who  commanded  a  French  fleet 
in  American  waters  during  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  after- 
wards died  upon  the  guillotine  in  the  French  Revolution. 
This  nobleman,  still  a  young  man  when  Longchamp  left  the 
service  of  Voltaire,  had  run  so  deeply  into  debt  that  there  ap- 
peared no  resource  left  to  him  but  to  sell  his  paternal  estates, 
and  reduce  himself  to  abs-olute  penury.  Voltaire,  one  of  the 
largest  creditors,  undertook  to  save  the  lands  and  put  the 
young  man's  debts  in  a  train  of  liquidation.  He  bought 
enough  of  the  debts,  at  a  serious  reduction,  to  constitute  him 
the  chief  creditor,  and  thus  secured  the  legal  right  to  control 
the  affair.  Other  debts  he  arranged  to  pay  at  various  periods, 
and  converted  others  into  annuities.  By  these  and  other  de- 
vices he  saved  the  estate  entire,  and  enabled  the  count,  while 
still  enjoying  a  sufficient  revenue,  to  relieve  it  from  incum- 
brance within  a  reasonable  time.  "  Often,"  adds  Longchamp, 
"  I  have  seen  M.  d'Estaing  at  the  house  of  M.  de  Voltaire, 
whom  he  regarded  as  his  best  friend,  and  he  said  openly  to 
those  who  talked  to  him  of  his  affairs  that  if  there  remained 
to  him  something  of  his  ancient  fortune  he  was  indebted  for 
it  to  M.  de  Voltaire  alone."  ^ 

1  2  Memoires  sur  Voltaire  et  sur  ses  CEuvres,  par  Longchamp  et  Wagni^re,  ses 
Secretaires,  115  to  223.     Paris,  1826. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

DEATH  OF  MADAME  DU  CHATELET. 

Perhaps  it  is  fortunate  for  civilization  that  so  many  of  the 
most  conspicuous  men  of  that  century  managed  their  relations 
with  women  so  badly  as  they  did.  Their  intense  and  shame- 
ful sufferings  instruct  the  student  of  the  art  of  living.  We 
see  them  expecting  to  enjoy  the  good  of  women  without  pay- 
ing the  just  price  of  that  good.  We  see  them  shunning  the 
salutary  restraints  of  marriage,  and  enduring  inconveniences 
ten  times  greater.  The  illustrious  Goethe,  a  rover  and  a  lib- 
ertine from  his  youth,  after  shrinking  from  marriage  with  a 
kind  of  horror,  found  himself,  in  his  declining  years,  mated  to 
his  inferior,  a  bloated  drunkard,  who  transmitted  her  despotic 
appetite  to  their  son  ;  and  that  son,  in  his  turn,  became  its 
abject  slave,  and  died  miserably  in  the  prime  of  his  life. 
Voltaire  we  have  seen  figuring  for  sixteen  years  as  part  of  the 
baggage  of  a  wild  marchioness,  enduring  more  than  the  cost 
and  worry  of  married  life,  while  enjoying  very  little  of  its 
peace,  happiness,  and  dignity,  and  nothing  at  all  of  its  great- 
est charm. 

His  long  bondage  was  now  to  end  in  a  catastrophe  com- 
pounded of  the  farcical  and  the  tragic.  Nature  cannot  be 
cheated.  Of  all  the  multitudes  of  men  who  have  attempted 
to  steal  a  good,  not  one  has  ever  succeeded ;  perpetual  motion 
is  not  more  impossible.  In  the  affairs  of  sex,  nature,  so  far 
as  we  can  discern,  has  but  one  object,  the  production  and  due 
custody  of  superior  offspring.  Slie  seems  to  regard  nothing 
else  as  of  the  slightest  importance  ;  and  since  the  production 
and  due  custody  of  even  one  child  demands  the  affectionate 
cooperation  of  both  parents  for  an  average  life-time,  every 
healthy  sexual  instinct  tends  to  life-long  marriage.  Nature 
will  not  be  cheated  in  a  matter  of  supreme  importance.  She 
bore  much  from  this  ill-regulated  Du  Chatelet,  but  turned 
upon  her  at  last  to  wreak  a  sudden  and  horrible  vengeance. 


548  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Madame  du  Chatelet  recorded  the  decline  of  Voltaire's  affec- 
tion for  her  with  great  candor.  She  introduces  the  topic  into 
her  *'  Reflections  upon  Happiness." 

"  I  received  from  God  [she  tells  us]  one  of  those  tender  and  im- 
movable souls  that  know  not  how  either  to  disguise  or  moderate  their 
passions ;  whose  love  knows  neither  decline  nor  disgust,  and  the  tenac- 
ity of  which  is  such  as  to  resist  everything,  even  the  certainty  of 
being  loved  no  more.  Yet  I  was  happy  for  ten  years  through  the 
love  of  him  who  had  subjugated  my  soul,  and  those  ten  years  I  passed 
at  his  side  without  any  moment  of  disgust  or  languor.  When  age, 
maladies,  possibly  also  the  satiety  of  enjoyment,  had  lessened  liis 
fondness,  it  was  long  before  I  perceived  it.  I  loved  for  two ;  I  passed 
my  entire  life  with  him  ;  and  my  heart,  free  from  suspicion,  enjoyed 
the  pleasure  of  loving  and  the  illusion  of  believing  myself  loved.  It 
is  true  that  I  lost  that  happy  condition,  and  not  without  it  costing  me 
many  tears.  Terrible  shocks  are  necessary  to  break  such  chains ;  the 
wound  at  my  heart  bled  a  long  time.  I  had  reason  to  complain,  and 
I  forgave  all.  I  was  even  just  enough  to  feel  that,  perhaps,  in  the 
whole  world  there  was  only  my  heart  which  had  that  immutability 
that  annihilates  the  power  of  time.  I  thought,  too,  that  if  age  and 
sickness  had  not  entirely  extinguished  his  desires  they  would  still  have 
been  for  me,  and  his  love  would  have  returned  to  me ;  and,  finally, 
that  his  heart,  though  incapable  of  love,  chei-ished  for  me  the  most 
tender  friendship,  and  would  have  consecrated  to  me  his  life.  The 
absolute  impossibility  of  the  return  of  his  taste  and  of  his'  passion, 
which  I  well  knew  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things,  led  my  heart  in- 
sensibly to  the  gentle  sentiment  of  friendship  ;  and  that  sentiment, 
joined  to  my  passion  for  study,  rendered  me  sufficiently  happy."  ^ 

Which  means  that  she  had  found  another  lover.  At  the 
distance  of  a  day's  ride  eastward  from  Cirey  was  Luneville, 
the  principal  seat  of  Stanislas,  "King  of  Poland,"  father-in-law 
to  the  King  of  France,  and  Duke  of  Lorraine.  He  was  an 
indolent,  good-natured  old  gentleman,  now  a  little  past  sev- 
enty, who  amused  himself  by  maintaining  a  court  in  the  style 
then  accepted  in  Europe  as  the  true  royal  mode.  That  is  to 
say,  he  kept  a  confessor  and  a  mistress  ;  he  went  to  mass 
every  morning ;  he  was  scrupulously  polite  to  his  wife  ;  he 
corresponded  with  authors,  wrote  books,  founded  an  Academy, 
gave  prizes  for  poems,  loved  the  drama,  and  doted  upon  Vol- 
taire. His  court,  too,  was  a  centre  of  intrigues,  which  were 
1  Lefctres  luedites  de  Madame  la  Marquise  du  Chatelet.   Paris,  1806.  Page  369. 


DEATH  OF  MADAME   DU  CHATELET.  549 

as  active  and  virulent  as  those  of  courts  wliere  a  hundred 
times  as  much  of  the  public  money  was  wasted.  Voltaire  had 
been  an  occasional  visitor  at  LumSville  for  many  years ;  but  it 
was  one  of  those  petty  court  intrigues  that  drew  him  thither 
as  a  more  established  inmate. 

•  The  king,  as  Voltaire  has  recorded,  "  shared  his  soul  be- 
tween his  mistress,  the  Marquise  de  Boufflers,  and  a  Jesuit 
named  Menou,  the  most  intriguing  and  audacious  priest  I  have 
ever  known.  This  man  had  beguiled  from  King  Stanislas, 
through  the  importunities  of  his  wife,  whom  he  governed,  about 
a  million  francs,  part  of  which  he  employed  in  building  a  mag- 
nificent house  for  himself  and  some  Jesuits  in  the  town  of 
Nancy.  This  house  was  endowed  with  a  revenue  of  twenty- 
four  thousand  francs,  of  which  twelve  thousand  were  for  Me- 
nou's  table,  and  twelve  thousand  were  at  his  disposal.  The 
mistress  was  far  from  being  so  well  treated.  She  drew  from  the 
King  of  Poland  scarcely  money  enough  to  buy  her  petticoats, 
and  yet  the  Jesuit  coveted  her  portion,  and  was  furiously  jeal- 
ous of  the  marquise.  They  were  openly  embroiled.  Every  day 
the  king  had  much  trouble,  on  going  out  from  the  mass,  to 
reconcile  his  mistress  and  his  confessor.  At  length,  our  Jesuit, 
having  heard  Madame  du  Chatelet  spoken  of  as  a  woman  well 
formed  and  still  handsome  enough,  conceived  the  project  of 
putting  her  in  Madame  de  Boufflers's  place.  Stanislas  occa- 
sionally composed  some  sufficiently  bad  little  works,  and  Menou 
believed  that  a  woman  who  was  an  author  would  succeed  better 
with  him  than  another.  It  was  he  who  came  to  Cirey  to  begin 
this  game.  He  cajoled  Madame  du  Chatelet,  and  told  us  that 
Kinfj  Stanislas  would  be  enchanted  to  see  us.  He  returned  to 
say  to  the  king  that  we  burned  with  desire  to  pay  our  court  to 
im. 
And,  indeed,  as  Longchamp  has  already  informed  us,  ma- 
dame,  from  1747,  found  herself  very  much  at  home  at  the  little 
court,  where  all  her  talents  were  agreeably  exercised.  She 
acted,  sang,  danced,  played,  conversed,  and  translated  Newton. 
But  it  was  Voltaire  who  captivated  the  benevolent  old  king. 
"  We  attached  ourselves,"  he  says,  "  to  Madame  de  Boufflers, 
and  the  Jesuit  had  two  women  to  combat."  The  king's  let- 
ters to  Voltaire,  of  which  several  have  been  preserved,  are 
warmly  eulogistic,  and  he  praises  some  of  his  writings  of  this 


650  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

period  in  a  manner  which  casts  doubts  upon  his  orthodoxy. 
Stanishis  published,  in  1749,  his  Uttle  work  entitled  "  The 
Christian  .Philosopher,"  which  was  held  by  good  Catholics  to 
savor  of  heresy.  His  daughter,  the  Queen  of  France,  read  it 
with  emphatic  disapproval,  and  laid  the  blame  of  it  at  the  door 
of  her  father's  favored  guests.  They  had  perverted  the  good 
old  man,  she  thought,  and  she  did  not  love  Voltaire  the  better 
for  it.  She  wrote  to  her  father  that  his  book  was  the  work  of 
an  atheist,  and  she  entertained  the  opinion  that  Voltaire  and 
Madame  du  Chatelet  had  first  lured  him  from  the  path  of  vir- 
tue throuo-li  Madame  de  Boufflers,  and  then  stifled  his  remorse 
with  irreligion.i 

Voltaire  soon  felt  this  renewal  of  antipathy.  After  reach- 
ing Lundville  in  September,  1748,  he  heard  that  a  low  bur- 
lesque of  his  "  S^mirainis  "  was  about  to  be  performed  at  Fon- 
tainebleau.  He  begged  the  King  of  Poland  to  come  to  his 
bedside,  and  entreated  him  to  forward  to  the  queen,  his  daugh- 
ter, a  remonstrance  against  the  sacrilege.  The  queen  coldly 
replied  that  everything  was  parodied,  even  Virgil ;  parodies 
were  in  fashion  ;  why  should  he  complain  ?  He  then  appealed 
to  Madame  de  Pompadour,  and  she  contrived  to  prevent  the 
performance.  Parodies,  be  it  observed,  were  not  then  in  fash- 
ion ;  they  had  been  forbidden  five  years  before,  and  the  edict 
was  still  in  force.  Stanislas  heaped  favors  upon  the  guests 
who  amused  him  with  such  an  enchanting  variety  of  enter- 
tainments. He  bestowed  a  solid  boon  upon  Madame  du  Cha- 
telet in  1748  by  appointing  her  husband  grand  marshal  of  his 
household,  at  a  salary  of  two  thousand  crowns  per  annum. 
He  interested  himself  also  in  procuring  for  her  son  his  first 
military  commission,  which  was  obtained  about  the  time  of 
this  visit. 

One  of  the  officers  of  King  Stanislas's  little  court  was  the 
Marquis  de  Saint-Lambert,  afterwards  celebrated  as  a  poet,  au- 
thor of  "  Les  Saisons,"  once  rated  by  Frenchmen  above  "  The 
Seasons  "of 'Thomson.  He  was  a  native  of  Lorraine,  a  scion 
of  an  ancient  house,  though  possessed  of  little  fortune.  He 
served  for  a  while  as  an  officer  of  Stanislas's  guards,  but  after- 
wards accepted  the  post  of  grand  master  of  the  royal  ward- 
robe. In  1747,  when  Madame  du  Chatelet  first  became  inti- 
1  Voltaire  to  Eichelieu,  Au<;ust,  1750. 


DEATH  OF  MADAME   DU  CHATELET.  551 

mate  with  him,  he  was  thirty-one  years  of  age,  a  well-formed, 
attractive  young  man,  not  less  agreeable  than  when,  in  later 
years,  he  was  a  favorite  in  the  circles  of  Paris.  She  was  then 
forty-one.  They  were  thrown  much  together  at  Lun^ville, 
at  Commercy,  another  abode  of  the  King  of  Poland,  and  at 
Nancy,  Saint-Lambert's  native  place.  It  was  not  long  before 
she  became  furiously  in  love  with  him.  As  early  as  the  spring 
of  1748,  she  wrote  him  a  tumultuous  letter,  in  which  she  ex- 
pressed her  passion  without  the  least  reserve.  It  is  evident 
from  this  burning  epistle  and  other  hot  notes  of  the  same 
month  of  May,  1748,  that  she  was  the  wooer  of  the  young 
man,  and  that  he  yielded  to  her  solicitations.  She  assures 
him  tWfit  her  love  is  without  bounds,  and  tells  him  that  her 
only  fear  is  lest  he  should  be  unable  to  return  her  passion  with 
the  entire  devotion  she  craves. 

"  Come  to  Cirey,"  she  wrote,  "  to  prove  to  me  that  I  am 
wrong." 

He  came.  He  was  with  her  at  Luneville,  while  Voltaire  was 
sick  on  the  road  to  Paris,  and  this  was  probably  the  reason 
why,  in  answer  to  Longchamp's  letters,  she  only  sent  a  lackey 
to  inquire  how  he  was.  She  was  urgent  in  her  love.  "  Come 
to  me  as  soon  as  you  are  dressed,"  she  writes  in  one  flaming 
note  ;  "  afterwards  you  may  ride  on  horseback  if  you  wish." 
In  another,  "  I  shall  fly  to  you  as  soon  as  I  have  supped. 
Madame  de  Boufflers  is  gone  to  bed."  For  several  months 
tliis  amour  was  in  full  tide  without  awakening  the  least  sus- 
picion on  the  part  of  Voltaire,  who  was  doubtless  relieved 
by  it  from  some  of  the  constraint  in  which  he  had  lived.  He 
probably  owed  to  it  his  happy  escape  to  Paris  with  Long- 
thamp,  and  his  gay  meeting  with  old  friends,  untrarameled  by 
madame's  bandboxes.  But  the  time  came  when  he  discov- 
ered it.  We  owe  to  the  curious  Longchamp  some  wondrous 
scenes  that  followed  the  discovery,  which  occurred  at  the 
chateau  of  the  King  of  Poland  at  Commercy,  twenty  miles  from 
Cirey :  — 

"  One  evening,  M.  de  Voltaire,  having  come  down-stairs  before  be- 
ing called  to  supper,  entered  Madame  du  Chatelet's  rooms  without 
having  been  announced,  there  being  no  servant  in  the  ante-chamber. 
He  traversed  the  whole  suite  without  meeting  any  one,  and  reached 
at    length    a    small    room    at    the    end,  half  lighted  by    one  candle. 


552  LIFE   OF   VOLTxMRE. 

There  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  M.  de 
Sakit-Lambert  ....  conversing  upon  something  besides  verses  and 
philosophy.  Struck  with  astonishment  and  indignation,  unable  to 
control  his  feelings,  he  broke  out  into  violent  reproaches.  M.  de 
Saint-Lambert,  without  being  disconcerted,  observed  that  it  seemed 
to  him  very  singular  that  any  one  should  give  himself  airs  to  censure 
his  conduct ;  if  that  conduct  displeased  any  one,  the  jjerson  offended 
had  but  to  leave  the  chateau,  and  he  would  follow,  in  order  to  ex- 
plain himself  in  a  suitable  place.  M.  de  Voltaire  went  out  furious, 
ascended  to  his  room,  and  ordered  me  to  go  at  once  to  find  a  post- 
chaise  that  could  be  hired  or  bought,  his  own  having  been  left  at 
Paris ;  adding  that,  after  having  found  it,  I  should  get  post-horses 
put  to  it,  and  bring  it  to  the  gate  of  the  chateau.  He  said  he  was 
resolved  to  return  to  Paris  that  very  night. 

"  Amazed  at  a  departure  so  precipitate,  of  which  I  had  not  heard 
a  word  the  evening  before,  and  unable  to  divine  the  cause,  I  went 
in  search  of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  to  inform  her  of  the  order  I  had 
just  received,  and  try  to  learn  from  her  what  was  the  motive  of  it. 
She  told  me  that  M.  de  Voltaire  was  a  flighty  man  [^un  visionnaire], 
who  had  burst  into  a  passion  because  he  had  found  M.  de  Saint- 
Lambert  in  her  room.  It  was  necessary,  she  added,  to  prevent  his 
leaving  and  making  an  outcry,  and  that  I  must  evade  executing  the 
commission  which  he  had  given  me  in  a  moment  of  fury.  She 
would  know  how  to  appease  him ;  it  was  necessary  to  let  him  dis- 
charge his  first  fire,  and  try  only  to  keep  him  in  his  room  the  next 
day. 

'•  I  did  not  return  to  his  room  until  toward  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  I  told  him  that  in  all  Commercy  I  had  not  been  able 
to  find  a  carriage,  either  for  hire  or  sale.  His-  servants  lodo^ed  in 
the  city  ;  I  slejit  alone  in  a  small  room  near  his  chamber.  Before 
going  to  bed,  he  drew  from  a  secretary  a  small  bag  of  money,  which 
he  gave  me,  saying  that,  after  having  rested,  I  was  to  go,  at  the 
dawn  of  day,  hire  a  post-horse  and  ride  to  Nancy,  whence  I  should 
bring  him  a  carriage  suited  to  his  purpose.  Seeing  that  he  was  still 
in  the  same  resolution,  I  wished  to  give  notice  of  it  to  Madame  du 
Chatelet.  Before  retiring,  I  descended  secretly  to  her  room,  where 
she  was  still  occupied  in  writing.  On  seeing  me,  she  first  asked  if 
M.  de  Voltaire  was  a  little  more  tranquil.  I  replied  that  he  appeared 
to  be  still  irritated  ;  that  he  had  just  gone  to  bed ;  but  that  probably 
he  would  sleep  little  during  the  night.  Thereupon  she  dismissed  me, 
saying  that  she  was  going  up  to  speak  to  him. 

"  I  returned  softly  to  my  little  room.  A  few  minutes  after  some 
one  knocked,  and  I  ran,  with  a  candle,  to  open  the  door  for  madame, 


t 


DEATH   OF   MADAME   DU   CHATELET.  553 

and  to  announce  her  to  M.  de  Voltaire.  Seeing  me  half  undressed,  he 
did  not  suspect  that  I  had  been  forewarned  of  this  visit.  She  entered 
the  chamber  almost  at  the  same  time  as  myself,  and  took  a  seat  upon 
the  foot  of  his  bed.  After  having  lighted  two  candles  I  withdrew ; 
but  I  could  hear  part  of  their  conversation  through  the  very  thin  wall 
which  separated  me  from  the  chamber ;  and,  since  the  death  of  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet,  I  have  heard  some  details  from  Mademoiselle  du 
Thil,  her  intimate  confidante.  While  I  was  still  with  them,  madame 
first  addressed  him  in  English,  repeating  a  pet  name  in  that  language 
which  she  ordinarily  called  him  by.  After  I  was  gone  she  spoke 
in  French,  and  did  what  she  could  to  soften  him  and  excuse  her- 
self. 

"  'What,'  said  he,  '  you  wish  me  to  believe  you  after  what  I  have 
seen  !  I  have  exhausted  my  health,  my  fortune ;  I  have  sacrificed  all 
for  you  ;  and  you  deceive  me  ! ' 

" '  No,'  she  replied,  '  I  love  you  always ;  but  for  a  long  time  you 
have  complained  that  you  are  sick,  that  your  strength  abandons  you ; 
I  am  extremely  afflicted  at  it;  I  am  very  far  from  wishing  your  death ; 
your  health  is  very  dear  to  me  ;  no  one  in  the  world  takes  more  in- 
terest in  it  than  I  do.  On  your  part,  you  have  always  shown  much 
interest  in  mine ;  you  have  known  and  approved  the  regimen  which 
suits  it ;  you  have  even  favored  and  shared  it  as  long  as  it  was  in  your 
power  to  do  so.  Since  you  agree  that  you  could  not  continue  to  take 
care  of  it  except  to  your  great  damage,  ought  you  to  be  offended  that 
it  is  one  of  your  friends  who  supplies  your  place  ? ' 

"' Ah,  madame,'  said  he,  'you  are  always  right;  but  since  things 
must  be  as  they  are,  at  least  let  them  not  pass  before  my  eyes.' 

"  After  half  an  hour's  conversation,  madame,  seeing  that  he  was  a 
little  more  calm,  bade  him  adieu  with  an  embrace,  and  urged  him  to 
give  himself  up  to  repose.     She  then  retired. 

"  She  had  already  taken  much  trouble  to  appease  M.  de  Saint-Lam- 
bert, who  still  wished  to  have  satisfaction  for  the  insult  which  he  pre- 
tended to  have  received  from  M.  de  Voltaire.  She  succeeded  in  molli- 
fying him,  and  she  determined  him  even  to  take  measures  for  the  res- 
toration of  good-will  between  them,  persuading  him  that  this  was  his 
dyty,  were  it  only  from  deference  to  the  age  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  The 
latter,  after  the  interview  with  madame,  slept  for  some  hours,  and  did 
not  leave  his  rooms  that  day.  Toward  evening,  M.  de  Saint-Lambert 
called,  alleging  that  he  was  anxious  concerning  the  healtli  of  M.  de 
Voltaire.  Astonished  to  see  him,  I  went  to  announce  him  to  M.  de 
Voltaire,  who  permitted  him  to  enter.  The  young  man,  approaching 
with  a  modest  air,  began  by  apologizing  for  the  words,  a  little  ani- 
mated, which  had  escaped  him  in  a  moment  of  trouble  and  agitation. 


554  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

Scarcely  was  his  sentence  finished,  when  M.  de  Voltaire  seized  him 
with"  both  hands,  embraced  him,  and  said,  — 

"  'My  child,  I  have  forgotten  all,  and  it  was  I  who  was  in  the  wrong. 
You  are  in  the  happy  age  of  love  and  delight.  Enjoy  those  moments, 
too  brief.  An  old  man,  an  invalid,  like  me  is  not  made  for  the  pleas- 
ures.' 

"  The  next  day  all  three  supped  together  as  usual.  A  few  days 
after  this  adventure,  M.  de  Voltaire  began  to  compose  a  comedy  in 
one  act  and  in  verse,  wherein  all  that  had  happened  was  delineated 
under  a  veil  of  allegory.  The  characters,  the  passions,  were  depicted 
in  it  with  as  much  energy  as  truth.  The  author  judged  it  proper  to 
suppress  the  manuscript  of  this  piece,  some  verses  of  which  are  to  be 
found  in  '  Nanine,'  another  comedy,  which  was  also  written  at  Com- 
mercy  some  time  after." 

The  autumn  of  1748  rolled  away.  Voltaire,  having  recov- 
ered his  health  and  composure,  designed  to  spend  part  of  the 
winter  at  Paris,  where  he  hoped  to  see  "  Serairamis  "  revived, 
to  present  to  the  public  a  new  tragedy,  and  submit  to  the  King 
of  France  some  chapters  of  his  history  of  the  late  campaigns. 
Madame  was  to  leave  her  young  lover  for  a  while,  and  accom- 
pany her  old  "  friend  "  to  the  capital ;  not  to  share  his  ex- 
pected triumphs  at  the  theatre  and  the  court,  but  to  finish  at 
Paris  her  version  of  Newton's  "Principia,"  with  the  aid  of 
M.  Clairaut,  her  instructor  in  mathematics. 

"  Before  going  to  Paris  [continues  Longchamp]  she  desired  to  ar- 
range a  matter  of  business  with  one  of  her  farmers  near  Chalons  ; 
whence  she  proposed  to  go  on  to  Cirey,  in  order  to  audit  the  accounts 
of  the  men  who  had  the  management  of  her  foundries  and  forests. 
Both  having  taken  leave  of  the  King  of  Poland,  they  set  out  from 
Luneville  toward  the  middle  of  December,  1748.  On  approaching 
Chillons  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Madame  la  Marquise  was 
very  far  from  stopping  to  take  a  bowl  of  broth  at  the  inn.  She  was 
driven  to  the  country-house  of  the  bishop,  whom  she  knew  to  be  at 
home.  He  received  our  travelers  with  pleasure,  and  caused  a  good 
breakfast  to  be  served  to  them.  Madame's  farmer,  notified  by  one  of 
the  postilions,  came  to  meet  her  there,  and  the  regulation  of  his  ac- 
count was  neither  long  nor  difficult.  At  the  same  time  the  other  pos- 
tilion had  been  charged  to  bring  a  change  of  horses  by  half  past  nine 
at  the  very  latest. 

"  The  farmer  having  gone,  madame  took  a  fancy,  while  waiting  for 
the  horses,  to  propose  to  some  gentlemen  who  were  at  the  bishop's 


DEATH  OF  MADAME   DU  CHATELET.  555 

house  to  play  a  game  of  comet  or  cavagnole,  games  then  in  fashion. 
They  yielded  to  her  desire,  and  play  began.  It  was  much  prolonged. 
Meanwhile  the  horses  were  at  the  door,  and  the  postilions,  tired  .of 
waiting,  sent  in  to  say  that  if  the  travelers  were  not  going  to  start 
they  Avould  take  the  horses  back  to  the  stable.  They  received  orders 
in  reply  to  do  so,  since  the  travelers  would  not  set  out  till  after  din- 
ner, and  to  bring  the  horses  back  at  two  o'clock.  The  postilions 
executed  punctually  these  orders ;  but,  dinner  over,  madame  and  her 
friends  began  again  to  play  at  comet.  The  game  was  long.  It  was 
raining.  The  postilions,  chilled  to  the  bone  in  the  rain,  did  not  cease 
to  crack  their  whips  in  the  most  furious  manner.  That  game  over, 
Madame  du  Chatelet,  who  was  on  the  losing  side,  asked  her  revenge. 
Another  game  was  begun.  Then  the  postilions,  losing  all  patience, 
swore  like  mired  cartmen  ;  and  if  they  had  been  their  own  masters 
they  would  have  abandoned  their  horses.  To  quiet  them  they  were 
told  to  put  the  horses  into  the  stables  of  the  chateau,  and  were  as- 
sured that  the  time  lost  would  be  amply  paid  for.  At  length,  the  day 
was  entirely  spent.  It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Then  M. 
de  Voltaire,  to  whom  this  delay  was  not  agreeable,  and  Madame  du 
Chatelet,  who  cared  nothing  about  it,  thanked  and  took  leave  of  the 
very  obliging  prelate,  and  resumed  their  journey. 

"  It  had  rained  all  day  ;  the  weather  was  still  bad  and  the  night 
very  dark.  Mounted  upon  a  large  white  horse,  I  rode  on  before  to 
have  the  relays  ready  for  them.  It  was  not  possible  for  me  to  see 
two  paces  ahead,  and  unfortunately,  while  directing  my  horse  by 
chance,  I  got  out  of  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  went  headlong  into 
the  ditch.  Losing  my  seat,  I  was  precipitated  over  the  head  of  the 
animal,  and  found  myself  stretched  at  length  at  the  bottom  of  the 

ditch,  with  a  part  of  the  horse  resting  upon  me The  postilion 

who  was  sent  to  find  me,  having  heard  my  cries,  ran  up  to  me  and  as- 
sisted me  to  reach  the  carriage.  Tiiey  had  me  placed  beside  the 
femme  de  chamhre,  for  I  was  bruised  and  could  no  longer  ride  on 
horseback.  I  reached  Cirey,  suffering  much  pain  and  in  a  miserable 
condition  ;  but  rest  and  the  care  lavished  upon  me  restored  me,  and 
prevented  the  serious  results  which  the  accident  might  have  had,  some 
of  the  consequences  of  which  I  felt  for  several  years. 

"  Two  or  three  days  sufficed  for  madame  to  transact  the  business 
which  brought  her  to  Cirey  before  going  to  Paris,  where  she  expected 
to  pass  the  winter.  When  not  studying  she  was  always  lively,  active, 
and  good-humored.  In  the  midst  of  her  preparations  for  departure 
she  appeared  all  at  once  abstracted,'  melancholy,  restless.  She  had 
discovered,  from  various  symptoms,  that  she  was  in  a  way  to  become  a 
mother  again,  at  the  age  of  forty-four  years.     She  was  terrified  at  the 


556  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

prospect.     How  to  conceal  her  condition  and  its  consequences,  and 
especially  from  M.  du  Chatelet  ? 

"  M.  de  Voltaire,  struck  with  a  change  in  her  demeanor,  so  sudden 
and  so  extraordinary,  asked  her  with  concern  what  was  the  reason  of 
it.  She  gave  it  without  hesitation.  He  was  not  very  much  aston- 
ished. The  information  could  not  give  him  pleasure;  but,  on  learning 
it,  he  thought  only  of  tranquillizing  Madame  du  Chatelet,  and  pre- 
venting its  affecting  her  to  the  point  of  making  her  sick.  He  told 
her  that  there  was  no  occasion  for  despair,  and  nothing  in  her  case  at 
all  supernatural.  It  became  them,  he  said,  to  consider  the  matter 
coolly,  with  good  sense  and  prudence,  and  decide  what  was  the  best 
course  to  take  in  the  circumstances.  His  advice  was,  first  of  all,  to 
send  for  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,  that  they  might  all  three  take  part  in 
the  deliberation.  Informed  by  M.  de  Voltaire  of  the  business  in  hand, 
M.  de  Saint-Lambert  was  at  Cirey  the  day  after  he  received  the  noti- 
fication. 

"  A  council  was  immediately  held.  A  mischance  which  seemed  to 
be  of  a  nature  to  displease  equally  each  of  the  three  personages,  as 
parties  in  interest,  and  to  separate  them  forever,  served,  on  the  con- 
trary', only  to  unite  them  the  more.  The  event,  serious  as  it  was,  was 
even  turned  into  jest.  Nevertheless,  they  considered  first  if  there 
was  any  way  of  concealing  from  the  public,  and,  above  all,  from  M. 
du  Chatelet,  the  condition  of  madame  and  its  natural  consequence. 
It  was  decided  that  both  her  character  and  propriety  forbade  the  long 
and  indispensable  precautions  which  such  a  scheme  would  involve  ; 
and  even  were  she  capable  of  submitting  to  them  the  least  indiscre- 
tion, the  merest  accident,  might  cause  the  plan  to  fail.  The  questions 
then  arose  how  the  pregnancy  should  be  announced,  and  to  what  fa- 
ther the  child  should  be  assigned ;  which  latter  seemed  very  embar- 
rassing: to  M.  de  Saint-Lambert  and  to  Madame  du  Chatelet. 

" '  As  to  that,'  said  M.  de  Voltaire,  '  we  will  put  it  among  the  mis- 
cellaneous works  [^oeuvres  melees^  of  Madame  du  Chatelet.' 

"  On  discussing  the  thing  more  gravely,  it  was  agreed  not  to  falsify 
the  legal  axiom,  that  he  is  the  father  whom  the  nuptial  relation  indi- 
cates, and  that  the  child  belonged  of  right  to  j\L  du  Chatelet.  To 
him,  then,  it  was  resolved  to  give  the  child ;  but  the  difficulty  was  to 
make  him  accept  it.  All  being  well  weighed  and  deliberated,  they 
agreed  that  madame  should  write  at  once  to  her  husband,  who  was 
then  at  Dijon  (one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  distant),  and  invite  him 
to  come  immediately  to  Cirey  to  arrange  some  family  business,  so  as 
to  avoid  a  lawsuit  with  which  she  was  threatened.  She  pressed  him 
to  come  also  for  the  purpose  of  receiving  the  money  she  had  collected 
at  Cirey  for  the  expenses  of  the  next  campaign,  adding  that,  if  the 


DEATH  OF  MADAME  DU  CHATELET.  557 

war  continued,  he  was  to  have  a  higher  grade,  which  she  had  assisted 
to  obtain  for  him  by  her  influence. 

"  The  marquis  flew  to  Cirey,  where  he  was  received  with  lively 
demonstrations  of  tenderness  and  regard  on  the  part  of  his  wife,  as 
well  as  of  respect  and  joy  on  that  of  his  vassals.  He  was  rejoiced  to 
find  there  M.  de  Voltaire  and  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,  who  neglected 
nothing  that  could  render  his  visit  to  his  estate  agreeable,  despite 
the  season.  He  was  flattered  with  so  much  cordiality,  seemed  ex- 
tremely cheerful,  and  responded  by  unequivocal  marks  of  friendship. 
Madame  invited  several  noblemen  of  the  neigliborhood  to  spend  some 
days  at  the  chateau  to  augment  the  satisfaction  of  her  husband.  They 
gave  him  Ihtla  fetes,  and  even  theatricals.  During  the  first  days  she 
employed  a  great  part  of  the  morning  with  him  arranging  the  affairs 
of  the  house,  while  the  guests  were  hunting.  At  dinner  great  cheer 
was  made.  The  marquis  performed  well  his  part  at  table,  having 
previously  gained  a  good  appetite  in  going  to  see  his  farmers  and 
inspecting  his  forges  and  his  woods.  After  dinner  they  had  cards  and 
other  amusements  ;  but  nothing  surpassed  supper  in  agreeableness  and 
gayety.  All  the  guests  were  in  the  best  humor,  and  testified  their 
delight  in  seeing  M.  du  Chatelet  again.  Every  one  talked  with  the 
greatest  freedom  of  whatever  interested  him,  and  M.  le  Marquis  du 
Chatelet  related  some  stories  of  the  last  campaign  in  Flanders.  They 
seemed  to  listen  to  him  with  great  interest,  and  he  was  much  flattei-ed 
by  it.  They  let  him  talk  and  drink  as  much  as  he  liked.  When 
he  ceased,  others  told  pleasant  tales,  said  good  things,  and  gave  some 
curious  anecdotes.  M.  de  Voltaire  went  beyond  all  the  rest,  and 
heightened  the  general  gayety  by  the  drollest  and  most  diverting 
stories. 

"  Madame  du  Chatelet,  who  on  that  day  was  dressed  with  extreme 
elegance,  sat  next  her  husband,  and  said  some  agreeable  and  happy 
things  to  him,  paid  him,  without  affectation,  pretty  little  attentions, 
which  he  took  in  good  part,  and  to  which  he  responded  by  addressing 
flattering  compliments  to  his  wife.  M.  de  Voltaire  and  M.  de  Saint- 
Lambert  exchanged  glances,  and  secretly  rejoiced  to  see  that  all  was 
going  so  well.  Indeed,  during  dessert  the  marquis  was  in  a  beautiful 
humor,  and  became  entirely  gallant.  His  wife  appeared  in  his  eyes 
such  as  he  had  beheld  her  at  twenty.     He  felt  himself  transported 

back  to  the  same  age,  and  played  the  young  man During  this 

little  conjugal  colloquy  the  other  guests,  animated  by  champagne, 
talked  loudly  of  hunting,  fishing,  horses,  and  dogs.  But  M.  de  Vol- 
taire and  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,  interested  in  another  matter,  I'ead 
with  great  pleasure  in  the  face  of  M.  du  Chatelet,  and  still  better  in 
the  eyes  of  his  wife,  that  their  project  would  be  accomplished  accord- 


558  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

ing  to  their  intention.  In  fact,  from  that  night  the  pair  occupied  the 
same  suite  of  rooms.  Nothing  was  neglected  to  sustain  the  illusion 
during  the  following  days.  They  kept  the  marquis  in  play.  Pleas- 
ure followed  pleasure,  and  his  lovely  humor  was  maintained  in  the 
midst  of  the  gayety  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  Three  weeks  and 
more  passed  in  a  kind  of  enchantment,  and  then  madame  declared  to 
her  husband  that,  from  certain  signs,  she  had  reason  to  believe  herself 
enceinte. 

"  At  this  news  M.  du  Chatelet  thought  he  should  faint  with  joy. 
He  sprang  to  the  neck  of  his  wife,  embraced  her,  and  went  to  commu- 
nicate what  he  had  heard  to  all  his  friends  who  were  in  the  chateau. 
Every  one  congratulated  him,  and  called  upon  madame  to  testify  the 
interest  they  took  in  their  mutual  satisfaction.  The  news  was  imme- 
diately spread  into  the  neighboring  villages.  Gentlemen,  lawyers, 
large  farmers,  came  to  compliment  M.  du  Chatelet.  He  received 
them  all  to  admiration.  Perhaps  he  was  secretly  flattered  to  prove 
to  them  that  he  could  still  be  of  service  elsewhere  than  in  the  field. 
This  gave  occasion  to  new  rejoicings  at  Cirey.  At  length  the  time 
arrived  for  M.  du  Chatelet  to  return  to  his  post,  and  he  took  his  de- 
parture. M.  de  Saint-Lambert  went  back  to  Luneville.  Madame 
la  Marquise  and  M.  de  Voltaire  renewed  preparations  for  their  jour- 
ney to  Paris.  All  four  set  out  from  Cirey,  well  content  with  what 
had  passed  there." 

Thus,  Longchamp.  On  reading  his  unique  narrative  we 
naturally  turn  to  the  correspondence  of  the  characters  who 
fisfure  in  it,  to  see  if  it  harmonizes  with  his  statements.  We 
find  that  it  does.  December  1,  1748,  Voltaire  wrote  at  Lune- 
ville to  the  D'Argentals  at  Paris,  "  Divine  angels,  I  shall  be 
under  your  wings  at  Christmas."  This  accords  with  Long- 
champ's  information  that  they  left  Luneville  for  Paris  toward 
the  middle  of  December,  intending  to  make  but  a  brief  stay 
at  Cirey  for  business  only.  Something  not  expected  detained 
them  there  until  the  end  of  January,  1749.  January  21st,  Vol- 
taire wrote  to  D'Argental  from  Cirey,  "  Madame  du  Chatelet 
has  just  finished  a  preface  to  her  Newton,  which  is  a  chef 
d'oeuvre.'"  January  2Gth,  he  wrote  from  Cirey  a  long  letter  to 
the  King  of  Prussia,  and  did  not  begin  to  send  letters  from 
Paris  until  February.  Thus,  ample  time  was  afforded  (six 
weeks)  for  the  performance  of  the  amazing  comedy  described 
by  a  secretary  of  inquiring  mind. 

More  than  this,  Voltaire's  presence  in  Paris,  during  all  that 


DEATH  OF  MADAME  DU  CHATELET.  559 

long  period  of  detention  in  the  country,  was  veliemently  de- 
sired by  his  friends,  and  particularly  by  his  guardian  angels, 
the  D'Argentals,  ever  watchful  for  his  interest.  The  actors 
and  the  public  were  waiting  for  his  coming  with  impatience 
that  "  S^miramis "  might  be  revived,  with  the  author's  last 
corrections  and  improvements.  Never  before  had  the  clique 
hostile  to  him  been  more  active,  more  resolute,  more  hopeful ; 
and  a  tragedy  was  his  favorite  means  both  of  offense  and  de- 
fense. D'Argental  wrote  urgently  for  his  coming.  Madame  du 
Chatelet,  as  we  have  observed,  was  one  of  those  ladies  who  can 
look  out  from  the  warm  shelter  of  an  elegant  room,  and  bear, 
with  perfect  equanimity  for  many  hours,  the  inconveniences 
suffered  by  postilions  in  the  piercing  rain  of  a  French  Decem- 
ber. She  was  hard  j)ut  to  it  on  the  present  occasion  to  account 
for  this  unforeseen  delay  in  a  manner  that  would  satisfy  the 
Count  d'Argental.  January  13th,  she  wrote  to  him,  "  If  I 
thought  that  the  presence  of  M.  de  Voltaire  was  necessary  at 
Paris,  I  would  leave  everything  to  bring  him  thither ;  but,  in 
truth,  I  think  it  is  best  to  teep  the  public  fasting  with  regard 
to  '  Sdmiramis,'  so  that  they  may  long  for  it  as  it  merits.  I  am 
sure  of  M.  de  Richelieu,  and  know  that  the  parody  upon  'Senii- 
ramis '  will  not  be  played.  These  are  my  principal  reasons  for 
not  abandoning  the  very  essential  and  tedious  business  which 
I  am  transacting  at  Cirey.  A  forge-master  who  is  leaving, 
another  who  takes  possession,  some  woods  to  examine,  some 
disputes  to  reconcile,  —  all  that,  without  losing  a  moment, 
cannot  be  accomplished  before  the  end  of  the  month."  ^ 

All  of  which  confirms  the  narrative  of  Longchamp. 

They  were  established,  then,  at  the  Du  Chatelet  mansion  in 
Paris  early  in  February,  1749.  Each  of  them  was  at  once  ab- 
sorbed in  intellectual  labor,  madame  being  passionately  intent 
upon  completing  her  Newton  before  returning  to  the  country 
on  a  less  agreeable  errand.  Were  they  really  on  as  cordial 
terms  as  before?  They  were  always  liable  to  tiffs' and  scenes; 
and  if  age  had  cooled  Voltaire's  temperament  it  does  not  ap- 
pear to  have  quieted  his  nerves.  Let  Longchamp  relate  two 
scenes  between  them  at  Paris,  which  occurred  while  the  lady 
was  closeted  daily  and  nightly  with  her  professor  of  mathemat- 
ics, reading  proofs  and  verifying  algebra  :  — 

^  Lettres,  page  481. 


660 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


FIRST    SCENE. 

""Upon  their  return  to  Paris,  madame  plunged  again  into  the  sci- 
ences, and  invited  M.  Clairaut,  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  to  come 
and  examine  her  work  upon  Newton  and  go  over  the  calculations. 
M.  Clairaut  came  every  day,  and  went  with  her  to  a  room  in  the  second 
story,  where  they  shut  themselves  up  in  order  not  to  be  interrupted. 
There  they  passed  a  great  part  of  the  day,  and  in  the  evening  they 
usually  supped  with  M.  de  Voltaire,  who  then  kept  house,  and  occupied 
rooms  on  the  first  floor.  For  some  days  he  had  not  been  well,  and 
complained  that  his  digestion  was  out  of  order.  When  that  was  the 
case,  his  usual  remedy  was  to  confine  himself  to  a  strict  diet,  and  drink 
abundantly  of  very  weak  tea. 

"  One  day,  when  his  affairs  had  obliged  him  to  take  several  walks 
in  Paris,  finding  in  the  evening  that  he  had  gained  a  little  appetite,  he 
asked  to  have  supper  somewhat  earlier  than  usual,  and  told  me  to  go 
and  call  the  two  learned  persons,  Madame  du  Chatelet  and  M.  Clai- 
raut. Madame,  who  was  deep  in  a  calculation  which  she  wished  to 
finish,  asked  a  respite  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  M.  de  Voltaire  con- 
sents, and  waits  patiently.  Half  an  hour  passes,  and  no  one  comes. 
He  makes  me  go  up-stairs  again.  I  knock,  and  they  cry  out  to  me, 
'  We  are  just  coming  down ! '  Upon  receiving  this  answer,  M.  de  Vol- 
taire has  the  soup  brought  in,  and  takes  his  seat  at  the  table,  expecting 
the  company  immediately.  But  they  come  not,  and  the  plates  are 
getting  cold.  Then  he  gets  up,  furious,  rushes  up  the  stairs,  and,  find- 
ing their  door  locked,  he  gives  it  a  tremendous  kick.  At  this  noise, 
being  obliged  to  leave  their  work,  the  two  geometers  rise  and  follow 
him  with  some  confusion.  As  they  were  going  down-stairs  he  said  to 
them,  '  You  are  then  in  a  conspiracy  to  kill  me  ? '  Usually  their  sup- 
per was  cheerful  and  very  long,  but  that  night  it  was  very  short; 
scarcely  anything  was  eaten ;  each  of  them,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  his 
plate,  said  not  a  word.  M.  Clairaut  left  early,  and  it  was  some  time 
before  he  came  to  the  house  again." 


SECOND    SCENE. 

"  M.  de  Voltaire  went  to  bed,  but  could  not  sleep  all  night,  so 
much  was  he  excited  by  the  events  of  the  evening.  The  next  morn- 
ing, madame  sent  some  one  to  his  room  to  ask  how  he  was,  and  to 
know  if  he  desired  her  to  come  and  breakfast  with  him.  He  answered 
that  if  she  wished  to  come  she  should  be  well  received.  A  moment 
after,  madame  came  down,  holding  in  her  hand  a  superb  cup  and  sau- 
cer of  Saxony  porcelain,  which  he  had  given  her,  and  which  she  loved 
to  use.  They  were  very  large,  all  gilt  inside,  and  the  outside  adorned 
with  a  landscape  containing  a  great  number  of  figures  very  well  painted, 


I 


DEATH  OF  MADAME   DU  CHATELET.  561 

which  formed  some  charming  pictures,  as  well  from  the  elegance  of  the 
design  as  from  the  brilliancy  of  the  coloring.  M.  de  Voltaire  told  me 
to  pour  into  it  some  coffee  and  cream,  which  having  done  I  withdrew. 
Madame,  while  sipping  her  coffee,  began  to  speak  to  him  of  what  had 
passed  the  evening  before,  reproaching  him  for  his  quickness  of  temper 
and  excusing  herself  for  keeping  him  waiting.  She  was  standing  with 
her  cup  in  her  hand,  and,  while  sipping  and  talking,  she  had  come  very 
near  the  fauteuil  on  which  he  was  seated.  Suddenly  he  rose,  as  if  to 
make  room  for  her  to  sit  beside  him,  and,  in  rising,  he  struck  madame 
with  his  left  shoulder,  which  caused  the  cup  and  saucer  to  fall  from 
her  hands  and  break  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Roused  by  this  noise,  I 
reentered.  Madame,  much  attached  to  this  little  article,  and  having 
quite  as  quick  a  temper  as  M.  de  Voltaire,  said  to  him  in  English 
some  words  which  I  did  not  understand,  and,  without  waiting  for  his 
reply,  went  up  to  her  room,  extremely  irritated,  as  it  seemed  to  me. 

"  As  soon  as  she  was  gone  out,  M.  de  Voltaire  called  me,  told  me 
to  pick  up  the  pieces  and  put  them  upon  the  table.  He  chooses  one 
of  the  largest  pieces,  and  tells  me  to  go  at  once  to  the  shop  of  M.  la 
Frenaye,  jeweler,  to  buy  a  cup  and  saucer  exactly  like  the  fragment, 
if  he  has  one  such.  At  the  same  time  he  gives  me  a  little  bag  of 
money  to  pay  him.  But  among  all  the  porcelains  which  adorned  the 
shop,  I  found  not  one  cup  of  the  pattern  I  wished.  Having  chosen 
one  of  those  which  seemed  most  like  it,  I  asked  the  price.  Ten  louis. 
The  bag  was  two  or  three  louis  short  of  this  sum,  and  I  asked  M.  la 
Frenaye  to  send  one  of  his  men  with  three  or  four  of  his  most  beauti- 
ful breakfast  cups,  that  M.  de  Voltaire  might  choose  the  one  he  liked 
best.  The  man  brought  six.  Having  selected  the  most  elegant,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  most  expensive,  M.  de  Voltaire  haggled  much  about 
the  price  ;  but  gained  nothing  by  it,  the  man  protesting  that  ten  louis 
was  the  cost  price,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  abate  anything.  M. 
de  Voltaire  finished  by  counting  out  to  the  man  the  ten  louis,  not  with- 
out regretting  the  expense,  and  saying  between  his  teeth  that  madame 
ought  to  have  taken  her  coffee  in  her  own  room  before  coming  down 
to  his.  Nevertheless,  he  sent  me  to  make  his  excuses  for  his  ill-tem- 
per, and  to  carry  her  this  new  coffee-cup,  which  she  received  with  a 
smile.  Their  reconciliation  was  prompt,  and  this  little  disturbance  had 
no  after-effects." 

The  weeks  flew  by,  as  only  time  can  fly  which  is  spent  in 
mental  labor.  Madame  might  well  be  excused  for  keeping  her 
companion  waiting  for  his  supper.  She  spared  herself  no  more 
than  she  considered  him.  She  was  under  a  terrible  pressure. 
She  worked  upon  her  Newton  as  ambitious  or  procrastinating 

VOL.  I.  36 


562  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

students  ■work  during  the  ten  days  before  their  final  examina- 
tion. She  wrote,  at  the  same  time,  burning  letters  to  her  ab- 
sent lover,  lamenting  her  long  detention,  and  explaining  its 
cause. 

[May  18,  1749.]  "  No  ;  it  is  not  possible  for  my  heart  to  express 
to  you  how  it  adores  you.  Do  not  reproach  me  for  my  Newton  ;  I  am 
sufficiently  punished  for  it.  Never  have  I  made  a  greater  sacrifice 
to  reason  than  in  remaining  here  to  finish  it ;  it  is  a  frightful  labor,  — 

one  that  demands  a  head  and  health  of  iron Mon  Dieu  !  how 

amiable  INI.  du  Chatelet  is  to  have  offered  to  take  you  with  him  [to 
Cirey]  !  " 

[May  20th.]  "  My  departure  hence  does  not  depend  absolutely 
upon  me,  but  upon  Clairaut  and  the  difficulty  of  my  work.  I  sacrifice 
everything  to  it,  even  my  shape,  and  I  beg  you  to  remember  it  if  you 
find  me  changed.  Do  you  kuow  the  life  I  have  led  since  the  depart- 
ure of  the  king  ?  I  get  up  at  nine,  sometimes  at  eight ;  I  work  till 
three ;  then  I  take  my  coffee  ;  I  resume  work  at  four ;  at  ten  I 
stop  to  eat  a  morsel  alone  ;  I  talk  till  midnight  with  M.  de  Voltaire, 
who  comes   to  supper  with  me,  and  at  midnight  I  go  to  work  again, 

and  keep  on  till  five  in  the  morning I  must  do  this,  or  else  I 

must  either  renounce  the  idea  of  lying  in  at  Luneville,  or  lose  the  fruit 

of  my  labors  if   I  should  die  in   child-bed With  regard  to  the 

fear  you  have  of  being  alone  with  M.  du  Chatelet,  it  does  not  depend 
entirely  upon  me  to  secure  you  against  it ;  and  if  you  prefer  seeing  me 
ten  or  twelve  days  later  to  risking  that  accident  I  have  nothing  to 

say I  can  love  nothing  but   what  I   share  with  you ;  for,  at 

least,  I  do  not  love  Newton.  I  finish  it  from  reason  and  honor  ;  hut 
I  love  only  you."  ^ 

This  work  upon  Newton,  published  in  1756  by  her  distin- 
guished teacher,  Alexis  Clairaut,  in  two  quarto  volumes,  in- 
volved vei'y  severe  and  long- continued  toil.  She  attempted  in 
it  to  do  for  Newton's  "  Principia  "  what  Mrs.  Somerville  aft- 
erwards accomplished  for  the  Astronomy  of  Laplace.  She 
translated  the  Latin  into  French,  and  amplified  the  demon- 
sti'ations  so  as  to  bring  the  work  within  the  grasp  of  advanced 
French  students  of  mathematics.  The  title  finally  given  it  by 
M.  Clairaut  was  "  The  Mathematical  Principles  of  Natural 
Philosophy."  How  much  of  the  work  was  done  by  the  teacher 
and  how  much  by  the  puj^il  will  never  be  known.  At  the 
end  of  May  she  saw  her  last  of  Paris,  and  went  to  pass  the 
1  Lettres.    Paris.     1878.    Page  487. 


DEATH  OF  MADAME  DU  CHATELET.        563 

lovely  clays  of  June  at  beautiful  Cirey,  lier  work  still  incom- 
plete. 

They  spent  most  of  the  summer  at  Lun^ville,  where  ma- 
dame  chose  that  her  child  should  be  born,  because  there  its 
father  could  be  near  her  at  the  critical  time.  Both  Voltaire 
and  herself  continued  to  labor  with  an  intensity  which  was  ex- 
traordinary even  for  them.  At  Luneville,  being  separated 
from  his  books  and  papers,  and  kept  long  waiting  for  the  ex- 
pected child,  he  had  no  resource  but  in  original  composition. 
The  Duchess  du  Maine  had  suggested  to  him  a  subject  for  a 
new  tragedy,  the  Conspiracy  of  Catiline,  recently  treated  by 
the  aged  Crdbillon.  He  thought  of  it  during  these  summer 
weeks  of  tedious  waiting.  Kindled  by  the  project  of  his  Paris 
enemies  to  exalt  above  him  the  veteran  dramatist  just  men- 
tioned, whose  "  Catiline,"  despite  all  their  efforts,  had  signally 
failed,  he  now  had  one  of  his  frenzies  of  inspiration,  and  wrote 
in  eight  days  and  nights  his  tragedy  of  "  Rome  Saved."  It 
was  a  wonderful  feat.  Every  other  day,  he  says,  madame 
looked  up  from  her  Newton  to  be  astounded  by  his  bringing 
in  two  new  acts.  But  here  is  one  of  his  own  accounts  of  the 
mad  fit,  written  August  12,  1749,  at  Luneville,  to  D'Argen- 
tal:  — 

"  Read,  only  read,  what  I  send  you !  You  are  going  to  be  aston- 
ished ;  I  am,  myself.  On  the  3d  of  the  present  mouth  the  devil, 
saving  your  grace,  took  possession  of  me,  and  said,  Avenge  Cicero  and 
France  ;  wash  away  your  country's  shame  !  He  enlightened  me  ;  he 
made  me  imagine  the  wife  of  Catiline,  etc.  This  devil  is  a  good  devil, 
my  angels  ;  yourselves  would  not  do  better.  He  made  me  work  day 
and  niglit.  I  thought  I  should  die  of  it;  but  what  does  that  matter? 
In  eight  days,  —  yes,  in  eight  days,  and  not  in  nine,  —  Catiline  has  been 
done ;  and  the  first  scenes,  very  nearly  as  first  written,  I  send  you. 
It  is  all  done  in  the  rough,  and  I  am  quite  exhausted.  I  shall  send  it 
to  you,  as  you  may  well  believe,  as  soon  as  I  have  put  the  last  hand 
to  it.  You  will  see  in  it  no  amorous  Tullia,  no  go-between  Cicero ; 
but  you  will  see  a  terrible  picture  of  Rome.  I  shudder  at  it  still.  Ful- 
via  will  rend  your  heart.  You  will  adore  Cicero.  How  you  will  love 
Caesar  !  How  you  will  say,  This  is  Cato's  self !  And  Lucullus,  Cras- 
sus,  what  shall  we  say  of  them  ?  Oh,  my  dear  angels,  '  Merope  '  is 
scarcely  a  tragedy  in  comparison.  But  let  us  employ  eight  weeks  in 
correcting  what  we  have  done  in  eight  days.  Believe  me,  beUeve  me, 
this  is  the  true  tragedy  !  " 


564  •  LITE   or  VOLTAIRE. 

[Again,  August  16th.]  "This  post  ought  to  convey  to  my  divine 
angels  a  cargo  of  the  first  two  acts  of  Catiline.  But  why  entitle  the 
work  Catiline  ?  Cicero  is  the  real  hero  of  it :  he  it  is  whose  glory  I 
wished  to  avenge ;  it  was  he  who  inspired  me,  he  whom  I  tried  to  im- 
itate, and  who  occupies  all  the  fifth  act.  I  pray  you,  let  us  call  the 
piece  Cicero  and  Catiline." 

The  heat  of  creation  having  subsided,  he  labored  more 
peacefully  at  correcting  his  work,  kpeping  an  eye  ever  upon 
Paris,  and  beginning  already  to  make  partisans  for  the  new 
play  by  giving  early  accounts  of  its  progress.  The  Duchess  du 
Maine  was  of  course  promptly  notified.  The  President  Re- 
nault, a  French  Horace  Walpole,  rich,  critical,  and  friendly, 
was  amply  advised.  The  zealous  Marmontel  was  not  over- 
looked. The  author,  meanwhile,  on  surveying  his  work  more 
at  leisure,  found  abundant  faults  in  it,  and  did,  in  fact,  spend 
much  more  than  eight  weeks  in  correcting  the  composition  of 
eight  days. 

August  drew  towards  its  close,  and  still  madame  kept  them 
waiting.  The  ofiicers  and  servants  of  the  King  of  Poland 
did  not  all  appreciate  the  merits  of  guests  who  stayed  so  long, 
increased  their  labors,  and,  perhaps,  in  some  instances,  cur- 
tailed their  perquisites.  One  M.  Alliot,  aulic  councilor,  ad- 
ministrator of  the  king's  household,  did  not  approve  the  system 
of  M.  de  Voltaire  in  confining  himself  so  much  to  his  own 
rooms,  instead  of  taking  sustenance  in  the  usual  place.  He 
was  slack  in  supplying  a  frenzied  tragic  poet  with  such  homely 
necessaries  as  "  bread,  wine,  and  candles."  But  he  found 
that  the  tragic  poet  was  a  person  who  knew  his  rights  as  a 
king's  guest.  Voltaire  wrote  an  exquisitely  polite  letter  to 
M.  Alliot,  informing  him  that  at  the  court  of  his  majesty  of 
Prussia  he  was  not  obliged  "  to  importune  every  day  for  bread, 
wine,  and  candles."  "  Permit  me  to  say  to  you,"  he  added, 
"  that  it  belongs  to  the  dignity  of  the  King  of  Poland  and  the 
honor  of  your  administration  not  to  refuse  these  trifling  at- 
tentions to  an  officer  of  the  court  of  the  King  of  France,  who 
has  the  honor  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  King  of  Poland.'" 

This  note  was  ostentatiously  dated  "August  29th,  at  a  quar- 
ter past  nine  in  the  morning."  He  waited  just  half  an  hour. 
Receiving  no  answer,  he  wrote  to  the  king  himself,  dating  his 
letter  "  August  29th,  at  a  quarter  to  ten  in  the  morning." 


DEATH  OF  MADAJME  DU  CIIATELET.  565 

"Sire,  when  we  are  in  Paradise,  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  address 
ourselves  to  God.  Your  majesty  has  permitted  me  to  pay  you  my 
court  until  the  end  of  autumn,  when  I  shall  not  be  able  to  avoid 
taking  leave  of  your  majesty.  Your  majesty  is  aware  that  I  am  very 
sick,  and  that  unceasing  labors,  not  less  than  my  continual  sufferings, 
retain  me  in  my  own  rooms.  I  am  compelled  to  beseech  your  majesty 
to  give  orders  that  the  director  of  your  majesty's  household  shall  con- 
descend to  pay  me  those  attentions,  necessary  and  suitable  to  the 
dignity  of  your  abode,  with  which  your  majesty  honors  foreigners  who 
come  to  your  court.  Kings,  from  the  time  of  Alexander,  have  had 
it  in  charge  to  nourish  men  of  letters  ;  and  when  Virgil  was  in  the 
house  of  Augustus  Alliotus,  aulic  councilor  to  Augustus,  caused  Virgil 
to  be  supplied  with  bread,  wine,  and  candles.  I  am  sick  to-day,  and 
have  neither  bread  nor  wine  for  dinner.  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  with 
profound  respect,  sire,  of  your  majesty,  the  very  humble  servant." 

The  wine,  the  bread,  and  the  candles  were  not  again  with- 
held by  an  aulic  councilor,  the  king  having  given  orders  to 
that  effect.  Madame  Alliot,  we  are  informed,  was  extremely 
sotte  and  superstitious,  and  did  not  enjoy  this  irruption  of 
French  pagans  into  a  quiet  chateau  with  a  chapel  and  a  daily 
mass.  One  day  she  chanced  to  be  in  the  same  room  with 
Voltaire  while  a  frightful  thunder-storm  was  passing  over 
Lun^ville,  and  she  did  not  conceal  her  apprehension  that  his 
presence  much  enhanced  the  danger  the  chateau  was  in  from 
a  vengeful  bolt.  "  Madame,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  sky, 
"  I  have  thought  and  written  more  good  of  him  whom  you  are 
so  much  afraid  of  than  you  will  be  able  ,to  say  of  him  in  the 
whole  of  your  life."  ^ 

So  passed  these  summer  months.  September  came  in. 
Madame  du  Chatelet  still  labored  assiduously  at  her  Newton, 
not  neglecting  her  part  in  amusing  the  good-natured  old  king. 
Gay  as  she  seemed,  she  was  not,  as  Longehamp  assures  us, 
without  occasional  fears.  She  sent  to  Paris  for  her  old  friend, 
Mademoiselle  du  Thil,  who  obeyed  her  summons.  She  arranged 
her  papers,  and  had  them  divided  into  parcels,  which  she  caused 
to  be  sealed  and  directed.  She  made  Longehamp  promise  to 
deliver  them  to  their  addresses  if  she  should  not  survive. 
September  4th  her  child  was  born.  All  went  as  favorably  as 
possible,  and  Voltaire  wrote  three  merry  notes  to  convey  the 
news  to  anxious  friends  in  Paris. 

1  73  (Euvrea  de  Voltaire,  46.     Note  by  another  hand. 


566  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

,  "  This  evening  [he  wrote  to  the  Abbe  de  Voisenon]  Madame  du 
Chatelet,  being  at  her  desk,  according  to  her  laudable  custom,  said, 
*  But  I  feel  something  !  '  That  something  was  a  little  girl,  who  came 
into  the  world  forthwith.  It  was  placed  upon  a  volume  of  geometry 
which  happened  to  be  lying  near,  and  the  mother  has  gone  to  bed. 
As  for  me,  not  knowing  what  to  do  during  the  last  part  of  her  preg- 
nancy, I  set  myself  to  make  a  child  all  alone,  and  in  eight  days  was 
delivered  of  '  Catiline.'  It  was  a  jest  of  nature  to  wish  that  I  should 
accomplish  in  a  week  what  Crebillon  took  thirty  years  to  do.  I  am 
astonished  at  the  accouchement  of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  and  terrified 
at  my  own.  I  know  not  if  madame  will  imitate  me  and  be  pregnant 
again ;  but  as  soon  as  I  was  delivered  of  '  Catiline  '  I  had  a  new  preg- 
nancy, and  produced  upon  the  spot  an  '  Electre '  "  [another  subject  of 
Crebillon's]. 

In  the  same  light  tone  he  wrote  to  other  friends  that  night, 
while,  as  he  said,  mother  and  child  "  slept  like  dormice." 
"  I  am  a  hundred  times  more  fatigued  than  she  is,"  he  wrote 
to  D'Argental. 

For  four  days  she  continued  to  do  well.  The  child  was 
christened  in  the  chapel,  and  given  out  to  nurse,  after  the 
French  custom.  The  fourth  day  was  very  warm,  and  the 
mother,  being  slightly  feverish,  felt  the  heat  extremely.  She 
told  her  femme  de  chambre  to  bring  her  some  iced  orgeat,  a 
favorite  summer  drink  of  the  time,  made  of  almond  paste, 
sugar,  and  water.  Persons  near  her  bed  remonstrated  ur- 
gently. She  insisted,  and  drank  of  the  ice-cold  liquid  a  large 
tumblerful.  Alarming  symptoms  immediately  declared  them- 
selves. Doctors  were  summoned ;  her  husband  was  sent  for. 
Powerful  remedies  having  relieved  her,  again  every  one  hoped 
for  her  speedy  restoration.  Two  days  passed.  September 
10th,  late  in  the  evening,  Voltaire,  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet, 
and  other  friends  were  seated  at  the  supper-table  of  Madame  de 
Boufflers,  in  another  part  of  the  chateau.  Saint-Lambert  and 
Longchamp  watched  in  the  sick-room.  All  of  them  were  relieved 
and  cheerful.  Suddenly,  ominous  sounds  were  heard  from  the 
bed,  —  a  rattling,  hiccoughs,  a  struggle  for  breath.  They  rushed 
to  her  side.  She  seemed  to  have  fainted.  They  raised  her, 
gave  her  the  vinaigrette,  rubbed  her  feet,  struck  her  hands, 
and  employed  all  the  usual  remedies.  She  never  breathed 
again.     She  was  dead  when  they  reached  her  bedside. 

From  the  merriment  of  the  supper-table  Voltaire,  the  bus- 


DEATH  OF   MADA^IE   DU  CHATELET.  567 

band,  and  all  the  guests,  upon  hearing  the  awful  and  unexpected 
tidings,  ran  to  the  chamber.  The  consternation  was  such  as 
we  should  imagine.  To  sobs  and  exclamations  of  grief  and  hor- 
ror a  mournful  silence  succeeded.  M.  du  Chatelet  was  led  out ; 
the  other  guests  went  away  ;  and,  finally,  the  two  men  who 
had  most  reason  for  emotion  remained  alone  by  the  side  of  the 
bed,  speechless  and  overwhelmed.  Voltaire  staggered  out  of 
the  room  like  a  man  stunned  and  bewildered,  and  made  his 
way,  he  knew  not  how,  to  the  great  door  of  the  chtiteau,  at 
the  head  of  the  outside  steps.  At  the  bottom  of  those  steps 
he  fell  headlong,  close  to  a  sentry-box,  and  remained  on  the 
ground  insensible.  His  servant,  who  had  followed  him,  seeing 
him  fall,  ran  down  the  steps,  and  attempted  to  lift  him  up. 
Saint-Lambert  came,  also,  and  assisted  to  get  him  on  his  feet. 
He  recognized  Saint-Lambert,  and  said  to  him,  sobbing,  as 
Longchamp  reports,  "  Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  you  who  have 
killed  her  for  me."  Then,  suddenly  coming  to  himself,  as  if 
from  a  deep  sleep,  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  despair  and 
reproach,  "  Oh,  my  God,  sir,  what  could  have  induced  you 
to  get  her  into  that  condition  ?  "  Saint-Lambert  said  nothing, 
and  Voltaire  was  led  away  to  his  room. 

Among  the  crowd  of  distracted  persons  who  had  rushed 
into  the  chamber  on  the  first  alarm  was  Madame  de  Boufflers. 
As  she  was  going  out,  half  an  hour  later,  she  took  Longchamp 
aside,  and  told  him  to  see  if  the  deceased  had  upon  her  fin- 
ger a  cornelian  locket-ring  ;  and  if  she  had,  to  take  it  off  and 
keep  it  until  further  orders.  He  obeyed,  and  the  next  day 
gave  the  ring  to  Madame  de  Boufflers,  who  picked  out  of  the 
locket,  with  a  pin,  a  portrait  of  Saint-Lambert,  and  then  gave 
back  the  ring  to  Longchamp,  to  place  it  among  the  other  ef- 
fects, for  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet.  Two  or  three  days  after, 
Voltaire,  being  a  little  calmer,  asked  Longchamp  for  the  same 
ring,  which,  he  said,  contained  his  own  portrait.  The  secre- 
tary informed  him  that  his  portrait  was  not  in  the  ring  at  the 
time  of  madame's  death.  "  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Voltaire,  "  how 
do  you  know  that  ?  "  Longchamp  related  what  had  passed. 
"  Oh,  heavens  !  "  cried  Voltaire,  rising  to  his  feet  and  clasp- 
ing his  hands.  "  Such  are  women  !  I  took  Richelieu  out  of 
the  ring.  Saint-Lambert  expelled  me.  That  is  in  the  order 
of  nature ;  one  nail  drives  out  another.  So  go  the  things  of 
this  world  ! " 


568  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

Longchamp,  obeying  the  orders  which  madame  had  given 
him,  distributed  the  papers  she  had  left  sealed  and  directed. 
Last  of  all  he  delivered  those  addressed  to  her  husband.  One 
of  the  parcels  was  a  large  case,  locked,  and  sealed  in  several 
places,  with  the  key  in  a  sealed  packet  tied  to  one  of  the  han- 
dles. Upon  the  cover  of  the  case  madame  had  written  with 
her  own  hand :  — 

'■'■  I  pray  M.  du  Chdtelet  to  he  so  good  as  to  hum  all  these 
papers  tvithout  looking  at  them.  They  can  he  of  no  use  to  him., 
and  have  no  relation  to  his  affairs^ 

The  husband,  upon  opening  the  case,  was  disposed  to  disre- 
gard this  request ;  but  his  wiser  brother,  the  Count  de  Lomont, 
who  was  present,  told  him  that  he  ought  to  respect  the  last 
wishes  of  his  wife,  and  not  abuse  the  mark  of  confidence  which 
she  had  shown  him.  The  marquis,  however,  persisted  in  read- 
ing a  few  of  the  uppermost  letters,  which,  says  the  observant 
Longchamp,  caused  him  to  make  a  wry  face  and  shake  his 
ears.  His  brother,  saying  that  he  was  well  paid  for  his  curi- 
osity, ordered  a  lighted  candle,  emptied  the  case  into  the  fire- 
place, and  set  fire  to  the  papers.  There  were  several  thick 
and  solid  packets  of  manuscript  among  the  mass,  which  burned 
slowly.  Longchamp,  kneeling  down  before  the  fire-place  to 
quicken  the  blaze,  contrived  to  rescue,  on  the  sly,  Voltaire's 
"  Treatise  upon  Metaphysics  "  and  several  letters.  Even  those 
letters  were  afterwards  destroyed  ;  so  that  of  the  hundreds  of 
letters  which  must  have  passed  between  Voltaire  and  Madame 
du  Chatelet  only  one  trifling,  jocular  note  of  his  is  known  to 

exist. 

She  went  beyond  her  right  in  consigning  some  of  these 
papers  to  the  fire ;  for  among  the  mass  were  important  memo- 
randa and  documents,  collected  by  Voltaire  for  his  historical 
works,  of  which  she  disapproved,  as  well  as  some  compositions 
similar  to  the  metaphysical  treatise,  which  she  deemed  unsafe 
for  him  to  possess.  He  lamented  deeply  this  irreparable  loss, 
and  mentions  it  in  the  preface  to  his  "  Essai  sur  les  Moeurs," 
with  an  expression  of  respect  for  her  memory,  which  he  never 
omitted  on  any  fair  occasion  as  long  as  he  lived.  From  him 
the  public  never  learned  anything  but  good  of  the  woman  he 
had  loved. 

Madame  du   Chatelet  was  buried  at  Lun^ville,  with  the 


DEATH   OF  MADAME   DU  CHATELET.  569 

pomp  and  ceremonial  then  customary.  Her  child  lived  but  for 
a  short  time,  and  passed  away  lamented  by  no  one,  —  the  mere 
incidental  supernumerary  of  a  drama  in  which  nature  meant 
her  to  be  the  chief  personage^  And  these  wonderful  events, 
known  to  many  persons  immediately,  brought  no  reproach 
upon  any  of  the  actors.  Saint-Lambert,  in  the  drawing-rooms 
of  Paris,  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of  hero  of  romance.  "  It 
made  him  the  fashion,'^  says  the  "  Nouvelle  Biographic,"  and 
led  the  way  to  other  "conquests,"  and  to  a  long  career  of  so- 
cial as  well  as  literary  distinction  in  the  metropolis  of  his 
country.  Voltaire  remained  on  friendly,  even  cordial,  terms 
with  him  as  long  as  he  lived,  as  both  did  with  the  family  of 
the  Du  Chatelets.  Frederic  of  Prussia  was  duly  advised  of 
what  had  occurred  by  his  French  correspondents.  We  find 
among  his  poetical  writings  of  1749  an  epitaph  upon  Madame 
du  Chatelet,  to  this  effect :  — 

"  Here  lies  one  who  lost  her  life  from  the  double  accouche- 
ment of  a  '  Treatise  of  Philosophy  '  and  of  an  unfortunate  in- 
fant. It  is  not  known  precisely  which  of  the  two  took  her 
from  us.  Upon  this  lamentable  event  what  opinion  ought  we 
to  follow  ?  Saint-Lambert  assigns  it  to  the  book  ;  Voltaire 
says  it  was  the  child."  ^ 

1  14  CEuvrea  de  Frederic  le  Grand,  169. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THE  WIDOWER. 

In  some  very  bad  marriages,  Mr.  Emerson  wisely  remarks, 
tliere  is  a  fraction  of  true  marriage.  In  Voltaire's  connection 
with  Madame  du  Cbatelet,  tliere  was,  on  his  side,  a  large  in- 
gredient of  true  marriage.  To  the  vow  which  sealed  their 
union  he  was  faithful  against  the  solicitations  of  the  most  se- 
ductive king  in  Europe.  He  was  faithful  to  it  when  it  became 
oppressive.  He  was  faithful  when  she  was  faithless  ;  and,  after 
having  been  faithful  to  her  person  while  she  lived,  he  was  sin- 
gularly so  to  her  name  and  honor  after  she  was  dead.  He  had 
loved  this  woman,  and  he  lived,  with  her  in  that  kindly  illusion 
which  in  happy  marriages  casts  a  pleasing  veil  over  ugly  faults, 
and  sets  good  qualities  in  bright  relief.  Parents  habitually 
think  of  their  children  as  they  appear  to  them  in  their  best 
moments  and  moods.  So  he  thought  of  her.  There  had  been, 
moreover,  a  genuine  communion  of  spirit  between  them,  and 
they  had  often  been  true  companions  to  each  other.  Long- 
champ  has  told  us  how  they  sat  together  on  the  carriage  cush- 
ions, in  the  wintry  night,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  starry 
heavens  which  spoke  to  them  of  Newton's  immortal  glory. 
As  that  incident  gave  dignity  to  a  situation  otherwise  ridicu- 
lous, so  such  communion  of  soul,  though  but  occasional  and 
brief,  redeemed  the  quality  of  their  connection. 

He  was  heart-broken  at  her  loss.  "Ah,  my  dear  friend," 
he  wrote  to  D'Argental  on  that  fatal  night,  "  I  have  only  you 
left  upon  the  earth !  "  It  distressed  him  that  he  had  written 
of  the  birth  of  her  child  in  so  light  a  tone.  "  Alas,  madame," 
he  wrote  to  the  Marquise  du  Deffand,  "  we  had  turned  that 
event  into  a  jest ;  and  it  was  in  that  unfortunate  tone  that  I 
wrote,  by  her  order,  to  her  friends.  If  anything  could  augment 
the  horror  of  my  condition,  it  would  be  to  have  taken  with 
gayety  an  adventure  the  result  of  which  poisons  the  remainder 


THE  WIDOWER.  571 

of  my  miserable  life."  In  a  similar  strain  lie  wrote  to  other 
friends  during  the  first  hours  of  his  bereavement.  Longchamp 
testifies  that  the  death  of  his  Emilie  overwhelmed  him.  He 
avoided  all  company,  and  remained  alone  in  his  chamber,  ab- 
sorbed, sad,  suffering,  a  prey  to  the  most  doleful  thoughts. 
His  life  was  shattered,  and  he  knew  not  how  to  begin  to  re- 
construct it,  so  accustomed  was  he  to  depend  upon  her  for 
direction,  as  well  as  companionship.  His  first  thought  was  to 
retire  to  the  Abbey  of  Senones,  of  which  Dom  Calmet  was 
the  chief,  a  laborious  writer  upon  theology  and  history,  whose 
extensive  collection  of  books  Voltaire  had  frequently  drawn 
upon  during  his  long  visits  to  the  court  of  the  King  of  Poland. 
The  Abbey  of  S^nones  was  near  the  chateau  of  that  king 
at  Commercy,  in  Lorraine.  Soon  abandoning  this  idea,  he 
thought  of  seeking  ah  asylum  with  Lord  Bolingbroke  in  Eng- 
land, and  actually  wrote  a  letter,  as  Longchamp  asserts,  to 
Bolingbroke,  announcing  his  loss,  and  saying  that  he  was  dis- 
posed to  seek  consolation  at  his  abode.  The  letter  does  not 
appear  in  his  works,  and  seems  to  have  had  no  consequences. 

The  inevitable  duties  of  the  crisis  called  him  from  his  soli- 
tude, and  after  the  funeral  he  went  to  Cirey  with  Longchamp, 
where  he  was  joined  soon  by  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet  and  his 
brother.  Here  he  was  in  some  degree  consoled  by  sympathiz- 
ing letters  from  his  guardian  angels  in  Paris,  the  truest  and 
fondest  friends  of  his  long  life. 

"  You  make  my  consolation,  my  dear  angels  [he  wrote]  ;  you  make 

me  love  the  unhappy  remainder  of  my  life I  will  confess  to 

you  that  a  house  which  she  inhabited,  though  overwhelming  me  with 
grief,  is  not  disagreeable  to  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of  my  affliction ;  I 
do  not  fly  that  which  speaks  to  me  of  her.  I  love  Cirey ;  I  could  not 
support  Luneville,  where  I  lost  her  in  a  manner  more  awful  than  you 
think ;  but  the  places  which  she  embellished  are  dear  to  me.  I  have 
not  lost  a  mistress  ;  I  have  lost  the  half  of  myself,  a  soul  for  whom 
mine  was  made,  a  friend  of  twenty  years,  whom  I  knew  in  infancy. 
The  most  tender  father  loves  not  otherwise  his  only  daughter.  I  love 
to  find  again  everywhere  tlie  idea  of  her ;  I  love  to  talk  witli  her  hus- 
band, with  her  son I  have  been  reading  once  more  the  im- 
mense materials  relating  to  metaphysics  which  she  had  gathered  with 
a  patience  and  a  sagacity  which  used  to  frighten  me.  With  all  that, 
how  was  it  possible  for  her  to  cry  over  our  tragedies  ?     She  had  the 


572  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

genius  of  Leibnitz,  with  sensibility.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  we  do  not 
know  what  a  loss  we  have  suffered ! " 

Longchamp,  meanwhile,  was  packing  for  transportation  to 
Paris  his  books,  marbles,  bronzes,  pictures,  telescopes,  air- 
pumps,  and  his  other  apparatus,  much  of  which  was  placed 
in  large  barrels,  and  all  was  sent  to  his  old  abode  in  Paris. 
He  had  a  settlement  of  accounts  with  M.  du  Chatelet,  much 
to  the  advantage  of  that  incomprehensible  husband.  He  had 
essentially  promoted  the  fortune  of  the  bereaved  family,  and 
continued  to  be  of  service  to  it.  He  had,  as  before  men- 
tioned, lent  the  marquis  forty  thousand  francs  for  the  restora- 
tion of  the  old  chateau  at  Cirey,  receiving,  by  way  of  interest, 
an  annuity  of  two  thousand  francs.  For  several  years  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  making  a  present  to  the  marquis  of  a  re- 
ceipt for  the  amount  of  the  annual  sum.  •  When  the  Brussels 
lawsuit  had  reached  a  favorable  stage,  it  was  Voltaire  who 
negotiated  and  affected  a  compromise,  by  which  the  Du  Ch^te- 
lets  surrendered  their  claim  for  the  sum  of  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  in  ready  money.  He  then  proposed  to  the  marquis 
to  terminate  their  pecuniary  relations  at  once  and  forever  by 
selling  him  back  his  annuity  for  the  sum  of  fifteen  thousand 
francs.  Du  Chatelet  gratefully  accepted  this  proposal,  and 
contrived  to  pay  ten  thousand  francs  of  the  sum  agreed  upon, 
leaving  five  thousand  unpaid  at  the  time  of  his  wife's  death. 
This  debt  Voltaire  now  formally  relinquished,  asking  only  in 
return  a  few  mementos  which  he  had  himself  given  her,  such 
as  his  own  miniature  set  in  diamonds,  and  some  articles  of 
furniture  which  he  had  bought  for  her  at  a  sale.^ 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  scrupulously  he  used  the 
forms  of  respect  demanded  by  the  rank  of  this  husband,  to 
whom  he  was  so  strangely  related.  In  giving  an  account  of 
these  transactions  to  that  husband's  elder  sister,  he  says,  "  The 
marquis  deigned  to  accept  from  an  old  servant  this  arrange- 
ment, which  he  would  not  have  accepted  from  a  man  less  at- 
tached to  him I  value  his  friendship  above  five  thou- 
sand francs." 

After  a  stay  of  fifteen  days  at  Cirey,  Longchamp  packing, 
himself  working  a  little  upon  his  "  Rome  Sauvde,"  he  returned 

1  "Voltaire  to  the  Countess  de  Montrevel  (sister  of  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet), 
November  15,  1749. 


THE  WIDOWER.  573 

by  easy  stages  to  Paris,  and  took  up  his  abode  in  his  old  quar- 
ters, Rue  Traversiere,  now  hired  by  him  from  the  Marquis  du 
Chatelet.  The  house  was  a  roomy  old  mansion  in  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Antoine,  not  very  far  from  the  Bastille.  The  mar- 
quis, who  cared  little  for  Paris  or  the  court,  but  loved  his  gun 
and  doars,  retained  the  first  and  second  floors,  and  let  all  the 
rest  to  Voltaire.  The  rooms  would  scarcely  contain  the  multi- 
tude of  things  brought  from  Cirey,  which  were  heaped  up  pell- 
mell,  as  Longchamp  records,  a  chaos  of  splendid  and  interest- 
ing objects,  which  could  neither  be  enjoyed  nor  seen.  The 
owner  wandered  about  among  them,  sick,  sorrowful,  inconsol- 
able, sleepless,  admitting  only  his  guardian  angels,  the  D'Ar- 
gentals,  and  Richelieu,  and  them  not  often.  He  never  went 
out. 

"  During  the  nights  [says  Longchamp]  he  would  get  up,  all  agita- 
tion, and,  fancying  he  saw  Madame  du  Chatelet,  he  would  call  to  her, 
and  drag  himself  with  difficulty  from  room  to  room,  as  if  in  search  of 
her.  It  was  the  end  of  October,  and  the  cold  was  already  somewhat 
severe.  In  the  middle  of  a  certain  night  when  he  could  not  sleep, 
he  got  up  out  of  bed,  and  after  groping  a  few  steps  about  the  room 
he  felt  so  weak  that  he  leaned  against  a  table  to  keep  from  falling. 
He  remained  standing  there  a  long  time,  shivering  with  cold,  and  yet 
reluctant  to  wake  me.  At  length  he  forced  himself  to  go  into  the 
next  room,  where  almost  all  his  books  were  heaped  upon  the  floor. 
But  he  was  far  from  remembering  this,  and,  his  head  always  filled 
with  the  same  object,  he  was  endeavoring  to  traverse  the  room,  when, 
running  against  a  pile  of  folios,  he  stumbled  and  fell.  Unable  to  rise, 
he  called  me  several  times ;  but  so  feeble  was  his  voice  that  at  first 
I  did  not  hear  him,  although  I  slept  near  by.  "Waking,  at  last,  I 
heard  him  groan  and  faintly  repeat  my  name.  I  sprang  up,  and  ran 
toward  him.  Having  no  light,  and  going  very  fast,  my  feet  became 
entangled  with  his,  and  I  fell  upon  him.  Upon  getting  up,  I  found 
him  speechless  and  almost  frozen.  I  made  haste  to  lift  him  to  his 
bed,  and,  having  struck  a  light  and  made  a  great  fire,  I  endeavored  to 
warm  him  by  wrapping  his  body  and  limbs  in  very  hot  cloths.  That 
produced  a  good  effect.  Gradually  I  saw  him  coming  to  himself ;  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and,  recognizing  me,  he  said  that  he  felt  very  tired 
and  had  need  of  rest.  Having  covered  him  well  and  closed  his  cur- 
tains, I  remained  in  his  room  the  rest  of  the  night.  He  soon  fell 
asleep,  and  did  not  wake  until  near  eleven  in  the  morning." 

Longchamp  claims  to  have  assisted  his  recovery  by  means 


574  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIKE. 

still  more  effectual.  Among  the  letters  which  he  had  saved 
from  the  conflagration  of  madame's  papers  there  were  some 
in  which  she  had  spoken  of  Voltaire  with  great  freedom.  We 
know  that  she  did  this  in  conversation.  With  several  of  these 
letters  within  easy  reach,  Longchamp  ventured  to  say  to  his 
"  dear  master,"  whom  he  saw  perishing  daily,  that  he  was  very 
much  in  the  wrong  to  mourn  so  deeply  the  death  of  a  lady 
who  had  not  loved  him.  "  What !  "  he  cried.  "  Mordieu ! 
She  did  not  love  me  ?  "  "  No,"  said  Longchamp ;  "  I  have  the 
proof  in  my  hand,  and  here  it  is."  He  gave  him  the  letters, 
which  he  read,  and  remained  silent  a  long  time.  "  She  de- 
ceived me !  "  he  said  at  length,  with  a  sigh  ;  "  who  would 
have  believed  it  ?  "  From  that  hour,  according  to  the  secre- 
tary, he  began  to  recover  his  cheerfulness,  and  never  again 
left  his  bed  in  the  night  pronouncing  the  name  of  Emilie. 

Something  of  this  kind  may  have  occurred  ;  for,  no  doubt, 
a  person  so  little  accustomed  to  restrain  her  tongue  had  fre- 
quently given  full  play  to  her  pen.  The  Abbe  de  Voisenon, 
a  warm  friend  of  the  marquise  for  many  years,  has  a  brief 
passage  on  this  point :  "  Madame  du  Chatelet  cQncealed  noth- 
ing from  me  ;  I  remained  often  alone  with  her  until  five  in  the 

morninfj She  said  to  me  sometimes  that  she  was  en- 

tirely  detached  from  Voltaire.  I  made  no  reply.  I  took  one 
of  the  eight  volumes  [of  manuscript  letters  from  Voltaire  to 
the  marquise,  which  she  had  had  bound  in  eight  beautiful 
quartos],  and  I  read  some  of  the  letters.  I  observed  her  eyes 
moisten  with  tears.  I  promptly  shut  the  book,  saying,  '  You 
are  not  cured ! '  The  last  year  of  her  life,  I  put  her  to  the 
same  test.  She  criticised  them  ;  I  was  convinced  that  the 
cure  was  accomplished.  She  confided  to  me  that  Saint-Lam- 
bert had  been  the  doctor."  ^ 

Voltaire's  letters  of  this  melancholy  time  harmonize  with 
his  secretary's  narrative.  The  letters  of  October  are  in  the 
tone  of  despair.  In  those  of  November  much  interest  is 
shown  in  his  usual  pursuits,  and  he  renews  his  labors  to  com- 
plete and  perfect  his  new  plays.  He  wrote  often  to  the  Duch- 
ess du  Maine,  "  ma  frotectrice^''  arranging  with  her  the  de- 
tails of  a  first  performance  on  her  private  stage  at  Sceaux 
of  "  Rome  Sauvee,"  in  which  the  author  himself  was  to  play 
1  Quoted  by  Desuoiresterres  in  Voltaire  a  la  Cour,  page  180. 


THE  WIDOWER.  575 

the  part  of  Cicero.  The  drama,  always  his  consolation  when 
other  sources  of  enjojmient  failed,  was  his  chief  means  of  res- 
toration now,  as  it  doubtless  will  be,  finally  and  forever,  the 
most  constant  solace  of  toil-worn  mortals.  By  Christmas, 
too,  he  had  put  his  house  in  order.  He  took  the  whole  of  the 
large  house  from  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet,  and  so  found  room 
for  his  furniture  and  objects  of  art.  He  invited  his  niece, 
Madame  Denis,  to  live  with  him  and  do  the  honors  of  his 
abode.  She  was  abundantly  willing,  and  about  Christmas 
took  possession  of  the  keys  and  governed  his  house.  His  other 
relations  frequently  visited  him,  and  assisted  to  cheer  his  exist- 
ence in  the  most  natural  manner.  Madame  Denis,  whatever 
her  faults,  was  at  least  a  woman  of  the  world,  a  true  Parisi- 
enne,  interested  in  art  and  society,  ambitious  to  shine.  She 
had  herself  written  a  comedy,  was  somewhat  proficient  in 
music,  and  could  take  a  part  in  a  play  Avith  some  credit.  "  I 
have  returned  to  Paris,"  wrote  Voltaire  to  Frederic,  November 
10,  1749.  "  I  have  gathered  my  family  about  me  ;  I  have 
taken  a  house,  and  I  find  myself  the  father  of  a  family,  with- 
out having  any  children.  Thus,  in  my  grief,  I  have  formed 
an  honorable  and  quiet  establishment,  and  I  shall  spend  the 
■winter  in  completing  these  arrangements." 

It  seemed,  then,  that  he  had  won  at  last,  at  the  age  of  fifty- 
six,  a  suitable  and  becoming  home  in  his  native  city.  The 
Hotel  de  Richelieu  was  close  at  hand.  The  D'Argentals  were 
not  far  from  him.  Several  of  the  friends  of  his  early  days 
were  still  living,  —  the  Abb^  d'Olivet,  D'Argenson,  Thieriot, 
and  others.  He  was  rich  beyond  the  most  sanguine  dreams  of 
his  youth.  Longchamp  gives  us  the  catalogue  of  his  revenues 
for  this  very  year,  1749,  amounting  to  seventy-four  thousand 
francs.  He  informs  us,  also,  that  this  catalogue  was  incom- 
plete, and  that  the  actual  income  was  probably  eighty  tliou- 
sand  francs,  a  sum  equal  in  purchasing  power  to  perhaps  fifty 
thousand  dollars  of  our  present  currency.  It  was  a  laro-e  in- 
come for  the  time,  one  that  placed  every  reasonable  gratifica- 
tion within  his  reach.  It  was  an  income,  too,  of  which  the 
fiat  of  no  man  could  deprive  him.  He  did  not  yet  own  a  foot 
of  land.  He  drew  his  revenue  from  the  bonds  of  the  city  of 
Paris,  from  mortgages,  from  annuities  upon  the  estates  of 
great  lords.     He  had  twenty  sources  of  supply,  which  could 


576  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE, 

not  all  fail  him,  let  him  be  compelled  to  fly  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.     He  kept  his  resources  in  light  marching  order. 

France  had  been  at  peace  since  1748.  Why  should  he  not 
henceforth  remain  at  home,  cultivate  his  art,  amuse  Paris,  en- 
joy his  celebrity,  and  glide  tranquilly  into  the  veteran  ?  Be- 
cause he  was  Voltaire  ;  because  France  was  France ;  because 
he  had  scarcely  yet  begun  the  work  which  makes  him  a  per- 
sonage in  the  history  of  man ;  and  because,  until  a  man's 
work  is  substantially  done,  it  is  in  vain  that  he  seeks  the  re- 
pose of  the  chimney  corner. 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

HOUSEHOLDER   IN  PARIS. 

It  is  evident  from  his  letters  of  this  time  that  he  considered 
himself  settled  for  life.  His  intention  was,  after  spending  the 
winter  in  Paris,  to  visit  the  King  of  Prussia,  and  then  gratify 
a  long-cherished  desire  of  making  the  tour  of  Italy.  He 
wished  to  see  Rome,  and  the  two  buried  cities  in  which  the 
past  had  been  preserved  for  the  inspection  of  modern  eyes. 
This  desire  appeased,  he  meant  to  return  to  his  home  in  Paris, 
and  resume  there  his  life  of  toil  and  pleasure. 

He  did  not  know  as  well  as  we  now  do  how  completely 
he  had  lost  his  court  favor.  Neither  Richelieu  nor  Pompa- 
dour could  hold  their  own,  in  such  a  cause,  against  Boyer,  the 
queen,  the  dauphin,  the  princesses,  and  the  antipathy  of  the 
king.  Nevertheless,  on  one  condition,  he  could  have  lived  in 
peace  in  his  house  the  rest  of  his  days  :  he  must  have  discon- 
tinued the  important  part  of  his  career ;  he  must  have  let  the 
Boyers  remain  in  unmolested  possession  of  the  intellect  of 
France.  But  this  was  impossible  to  him.  He  might  as  well 
have  tried  to  live  without  breathing. 

Longchamp  has  already  told  us  the  story  of  the  publication 
of  ''  Zadig,"  one  of  a  series  of  satirical  tales,  which  he  com- 
posed from  1746  to  1750.  How  could  an  author  expect  court 
favor  while  publishing  burlesques  so  effective  as  these  of  every 
court  abuse,  and  even  of  court  personages,  transparently  dis- 
guised ?  There  was  one  little  tale  of  his,  called  "  The  World 
as  it  Goes,  or  the  Vision  of  Babouc,"  which  had  been  circu- 
lating two  or  three  years  under  an  equally  transparent  veil  of 
the  anonymous.  Babouc  was  commissioned  by  the  j)residing 
genius  of  Asia  to  visit  the  city  of  Persepolis,  to  see  if  it  was 
deserving  of  destruction  or  only  of  chastisement.  Babouc 
was  Voltaire,  and  Persepolis  was  Paris.  Every  fault  of  the 
regime  was  touched  lightly,  but  in  a  way  that  made  it  ridic- 

VOL.  I.  37 


678  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

ulcus  forever.  Tlie  Heedlessness  of  the  war  then  wastinor 
France,  promotion  by  intrigue  of  mistresses,  the  "  good  old 
times  "  superstition,  the  burial  of  the  dead  under  churches,  the 
sale  of  offices,  the  persecution  of  philosophers,  all  the  topics, 
important  and  unimportant,  were  treated  with  his  own  grace, 
brevity,  and  point. 

Babouc  enters  a  sombre  and  vast  inclosure  filled  with  the 
old  and  ill-favored,  where  some  people  paid  money  to  others 
for  the  privilege  of  seating  themselves.  He  thought  it  must 
be  a  market  for  the  sale  of  rush-bottomed  chairs.  "  But  im- 
mediately, seeing  several  women  going  down  upon  their  knees, 
pretending  to  look  straight  before  them,  and  eying  men  fur- 
tively, Babouc  perceived  that  he  was  in  a  temple."  A  young 
man  who  had  bought  a  judgeship  consults  an  old  lawyer  as  to 
the  decision  he  ought  to  give  in  a  cause.  "  But,"  asks  Ba- 
bouc, "  why  is  not  the  old  man  on  the  bench  ?  "  Babouc 
visits  the  great  college  of  mages,  or  priests,  the  chief  of  whom 
confessed  that  he  had  a  revenue  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns 
a  year  for  having  taken  the  vow  of  poverty.  Babouc  admires 
"the  magnificence  of  that  house  of  penitence." 

Another  of  these  tales  was  called  "  Memnon,  or  Human 
Wisdom,"  a  burlesque  of  those  luxurious  theologians  of  the 
century  whose  fundamental  maxim  was  that  partial  evil  is  the 
general  good.  It  was  Pope's  all-is-as-well-as-possible  theory 
of  the  universe.  It  was  the  theory  of  comfortable,  solid  men, 
who  have  little  sympatliy  and  less  imagination.  A  burlesque 
of  a  system  of  philosophy  would  have  been  harmless  enough 
from  any  other  pen.  But  Voltaire  must  needs  bring  his  bat- 
tered enthusiast  to  court,  "  with  a  plaster  on  his  eye  and  a 
petition  in  his  hand,"  to  get  redress  for  outrageous  wrongs. 
There  he  meets  several  ladies  wearing  hoops  twentj'-four  feet 
in  circumference,  one  of  whom,  eying  him  askance,  said, 
"  Oh,  horror  !  "  Another,  who  knew  him  a  little,  said  to  him, 
"  Good  evening,  Monsieur  Memnon  ;  indeed.  Monsieur  Mem- 
non, I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  Apropos,  Monsieur  Memnon, 
how  came  you  to  lose  an  eye  ?  "  And  she  passed  on  without 
waiting  for  an  answer.  Finally,  he  throws  himself  at  the 
king's  feet,  and  presents  his  petition.  The  king  receives  it 
very  graciously,  and  hands  it  to  a  satrap  for  examination  and 
report.     The  satrap  draws  Memnon  aside,  and  says  to  him, 


HOUSEHOLDER   IN   PARIS.  579 

with  a  haughty  air  and  a  bitter  sneer,  "  I  find  you  a  pleasant 
style  of  one-eyed  man  to  address  yourself  to  the  king  rather 
than  to  me,  and  still  more  pleasant  to  dare  ask  justice  agamst 
an  honest  bankrupt,  whom  I  honor  with  my  protection,  and 
who  is  the  nephew  of  a  femme  de  chambre  of  my  mistress. 
Abandon  this  affair,  my  friend,  if  you  wish  to  keep  your  other 
eye !  " 

After  many  adventures  of  this  kind,  poor  Memnon,  who  be- 
gan life  with  sanguine  hopes  of  attaining  perfect  happiness  by 
the  exercise  of  perfect  virtue,  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  this 
little  terraqueous  globe  of  ours  is  the  mad-house  of  the  uni- 
verse. All  of  which  was  very  amusing  except  to  parties  bur- 
lesqued, who  owned  France  and  kept  the  key  of  the  Bastille. 

Another  of  these  airy  tales  was  called  "History  of  the  Trav- 
els of  Scarmentado,  by  Himself,"  a  burlesque  of  religious  in- 
tolerance, that  compels  the  reader  to  laugh  and  shudder  at  the 
same  moment.  Scarmentado  visited  Rome  under  Leo  X.  to 
find  it  a  scene  of  debauchery  and  rapine ;  France,  desolate  by 
sixty  years  of  religious  wars ;  England,  where  he  was  shown 
the  place  on  which  the  blessed  Queen  Mary,  daughter  of 
Henry  VIII.,  had  burned  five  hundred  of  her  subjects  ;  Hol- 
land, where  he  saw  the  bald  head  of  the  prime  minister,  Bar- 
neveldt,  cut  off,  because  he  believed  men  were  saved  by  good 
works  as  well  as  by  faith.  At  Seville,  on  a  lovely  spring  day, 
when  all  breathed  abundance  and  joy,  Scarmentado  witnessed 
a  glorious  festival.  The  king,  the  queen,  and  their  children, 
little  girls  as  well  as  boys,  were  seated  on  a  magnificent  plat- 
form in  a  public  square.  "  Some  very  beautiful  prayers  were 
chanted  ;  the  forty  guilty  ones  were  burned  by  a  slow  fire  ;  at 
which  all  the  royal  family  appeared  to  be  extremely  edified." 
Scarmentado  found  a  Spanish  bishop  boasting  that  they  had 
drowned,  burned,  or  put  to  the  sword  ten  millions  of  infidels 
in  America,  in  order  to  convert  the  Americans.  He  gravely 
remarks  thereupon,  "  I  believe  that  this  bishop  exaggerated  ; 
but  if  we  should  reduce  those  sacrifices  to  five  millions,  it 
would  still  be  admirable." 

The  traveler  continues  his  journey  round  the  world,  and 
everywhere  finds  men  waging  cruel  war  against  men  for  opin- 
ions and  usages,  monstrous  or  trivial.  On  reaching  Ispahan, 
for  example,  he  was  assailed  by  a  terrible  question :  "  Are  you 


580  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

for  the  black  slieep  or  tlie  white  sheep  ?  "  He  replied,  "  It  is 
indifferent  to  me,  provided  the  mutton  is  tender."  Both  sects 
set  upon  him  as  a  vile  scoffer,  and  he  had  to  fly  for  his  life. 

Then  came  "  Zadig,"  the  story  he  had  read  piecemeal  to  the 
Duchess  da  Maine  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  This 
was  the  longest  of  the  series,  but  it  could  be  read  in  an  even- 
ing, and  it  was  full  of  offense.  To  Madame  du  Maine,  every 
scene  was  a  satire  of  the  life  she  daily  witnessed  ;  nearly  every 
name  was  the  pseudonym  of  a  person  she  was  familiar  with. 
The  story  begins  tlius  :  "  In  the  time  of  King  Moabdar,  there 
was  at  Babylon  a  young  man  named  Zadig."  She  took  it  oth- 
erwise :  "  In  the  time  of  Louis  XV.,  there  was  in  Paris  a  young 
man  named  Voltaire."  That  is  to  say,  it  was  the  mind  of 
Voltaire  before  which  now  passed  in  rapid  review  the  state  of 
things  existing  in  her  world.  In  this  work  he  attacked  Boyer 
under  so  obvious  an  anagram  that  no  one  failed  to  recognize 
the  ancient  Bishop  of  Mirepoix.  He  called  him  "  Yebor,  the 
most  stupid  of  the  Chaldeans,  and  therefore  the  most  fanat- 
ical." A  controversy  raged  in  Babylon  as  to  whether  there 
was  such  an  animal  as  a  griffin.  "  Why,"  said  one  party, 
"  should  Zoroaster  forbid  the  eating  of  griffins,  if  there  are  no 
griffins  ?  "  Zadig  sought  to  reconcile  the  embittered  sects  by 
saying,  "  If  there  are  griffins,  let  us  not  eat  them  ;  if  there  are 
none,  we  shall  still  less  eat  them  ;  and,  in  either  case,  we  shall 
obey  Zoroaster."  This  was  flat  heresy.  A  learned  person, 
who  had  written  thirteen  volumes  on  the  properties  of  the 
griffin,  hastened  to  accuse  Zadig  before  the  fanatical  Yebor, 
who  would  gladly  have  impaled  him  for  the  greater  glory  of 
the  sun,  and  recited  the  breviary  of  Zoroaster  on  the  occasion, 
with  the  most  satisfied  tone.  A  friend  took  up  the  young  her- 
etic's defense.  "  Bewai'e  of  punishing  Zadig  !  "  he  cried ;  "  he 
is  a  saint.  He  has  some  griffins  in  his  poultry-yard,  and  yet 
does  not  eat  them.  His  accuser  is  a  heretic,  who  dares  main- 
tain that  rabbits  have  cloven  feet,  and  are  not  unclean." 
"  Very  well,"  said  Yebor,  shaking  his  bald  head,  "  it  is  neces- 
sary to  impale  Zadig  for  having  thought  ill  of  griffins,  and  the 
other  for  having  spoken  amiss  of  rabbits."  The  friend  ar- 
ranged the  matter  through  his  mistress,  "a  maid  of  honor," 
and  no  one  was  impaled. 

The  trivial  nature  of  the  theological  controversies  of  the 


HOUSEHOLDER   IN  PARIS.  581 

day  was  variously  burlesqued  in  this  story.  "  For  fifteen  hun- 
dred years  Babylon  had  been  divided  into  two  irreconcilable 
sects  :  one  maintaining  that  to  enter  the  Temple  of  Mithra 
except  with  the  right  foot  first  was  an  abomination,  and  the 
other  denouncing  all  who  presumed  to  enter  except  with  the 
left.  The  bold  Zadig  jumped  into  the  temple  with  both  feet, 
and  proved  in  an  eloquent  discourse  that  God  was  no  respecter 
of  persons,  and  cared  no  more  for  one  foot  than  the  other. 
The  tale  alluded  also  to  the  malign  whisperers  of  the  ante- 
chamber, who  every  day  uttered  some  new  charge  against  a 
loyal  servant  of  the  king.  "  The  first  accusation  is  repelled ; 
the  second  grazes  ;  the  third  wounds  ;  the  fourth  kills." 

Besides  these  fictions,  there  was  a  piece  of  similar  tone 
which  assailed  superstition  in  a  more  direct  manner,  called 
"  The  Voice  of  the  Sage  and  of  the  People."  It  was  a  series 
of  short  paragraphs,  tending  to  show  that  it  is  religious  enthu- 
siasms that  waste  the  wealth  of  nations  and  menace  the  tran- 
quillity of  kings.  "  Here  is  a  convent  with  two  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  of  annual  revenue.  Reason  says.  Divide  that  estate 
among  a  hundred  officers,  who  would  marry  and  rear  citi- 
zens for  their  country."  It  was  superstition  that  assassinated 
Henry  III.,  Henry  IV.,  and  the  Prince  of  Orange,  besides 
causing  to  flow  rivers  of  common  blood.  But  no  philosopher 
had  ever  raised  a  parricidal  hand  against  his  king,  or  advised 
disobedience  to  the  laws.  Reason  perfected  would  destroy 
the  very  germ  of  religious  wars,  which  the  philosophic  spirit 
had  already  banished  from  the  world. 

It  was  not,  however,  such  passages  as  these  that  made  the 
"Voice  of  the  Sage"  so  offensive  to  the  Bishop  of  Mirepoix 
and  his  colleagues.  The  question  of  taxing  the  vast  property 
of  the  church  was  assuming  importance,  and  this  pamphlet 
presented  the  question  in  such  a  way  that  it  seemed  to  admit 
of  only  one  answer.     He  went  to  the  root  of  the  matter :  — 

"  There  ought  not  to  be  two  authorities  in  a  state. 

"  The  distinction  between  spiritual  authority  and  temporal 
authority  is  a  relic  of  Vandal  barbarism,  as  if,  in  a  house,  two 
masters  should  be  recognized :  I,  who  am  the  father  of  the 
family  ;  and,  besides  me,  the  tutor  of  my  children,  to  whom  I 
pay  wages. 

"  I  desire  that  very  great  respect  be  paid  my  children's  in- 


582  LIFE  OF   VOLTAIRE. 

structor,  but  I  am  very  far  from  wishing  him  to  have  the  least 
authority  in  my  house. 

"  In  France,  where  reason  becomes  more  developed  every 
day,  reason  teaches  us  that  the  church  ought  to  contribute  to 
the  expenses  of  the  nation  in  proportion  to  its  revenues,  and 
that  the  body  set  apart  to  teach  justice  ought  to  begin  by  giv- 
ing an  example  of  it. 

"  That  government  would  be  worthy  of  the  Hottentots  in 
which  it  should  be  permitted  to  a  certain  number  of  men  to 
say,  '  Let  those  pay  taxes  who  work ;  we  ought  not  to  pay  any- 
thing, because  we  are  idle.' 

"  That  government  would  outrage  God  and  men  in  which 
citizens  should  be  able  to  say,  '  The  nation  has  given  us  all  we 
have,  and  we  owe  nothing  to  it  except  prayers.'  " 

This  "Voice  of  the  People,"  a  short  essay,  which  the  reader 
might  not  observe  in  the  multitudinous  writings  of  the  author, 
was  the  sensation  of  the  year  in  ecclesiastical  circles.  It  was 
a  Voice  that  awoke  many  echoes.  Replies,  refutations,  and 
parodies  appeared  in  such  numbers  that  as  many  as  fifteen 
are  known  and  catalogued  at  this  day.  There  was  the  "  Voice 
of  the  Priest,"  the  "  Voice  of  the  Bishop,"  the  "  Voice  of  the 
Pope,"  the  "Voice  of  the  Fool,"  the  "Voice  of  the  Women," 
the  "  Voice  of  the  Poor  Man,"  the  "  Voice  of  the  Rich  Man," 
the  "  Voice  of  the  Poet,"  the  "  Voice  Crying  in  the  Wilder- 
ness," the  "Voice  of  the  Christian,"  and,  finally,  a  volume  con- 
taining all  these  Voices.  A  little  pamphlet  has  seldom  raised 
such  a  storm. 

These  brief  notices  of  his  lighter  labor's  during  the  last  years 
of  Madame  du  Chatelet's  life  will  suffice  to  explain  the  loss  of 
any  little  favor  he  may  have  won  at  court  by  two  years  of  toil 
for  its  amusement.  These  tales  arid  essays  were  easy  to  read, 
short,  full  of  that  satirical  gayety  which  Frenchmen  are  quick- 
est to  appreciate,  and  not  wanting  in  weighty  truth  most  need- 
ful for  citizens  to  know.  The  king  himself  probably  had  men- 
tal force  enough  to  read  works  so  adroitly  adapted  to  the  inert 
intellect.  The  queen,  too,  and  her  dull  little  court  may  have 
been  equal  to  some  of  them ;  and  there  are  always  people  close 
at  hand  to  minister  to  the  passions  of  those  who  control  the 
expenditure  of  a  nation's  revenue.  A  notable  scheme  was  con- 
ceived in  1748,  as  Marmontel  records,  to  assail  Voltaire  in  the 


HOUSEHOLDER   IN  PARIS.  583 

very  citadel  of  liis  power.  His  dramatic  celebrity,  as  we  have 
before  seen,  he  habitually  used  as  a  means  of  self-protection. 
When  a  storm  lowered,  when  he  felt  a  lettre  de  cachet  in  the 
air,  he  seems  always  to  have  gone  to  his  portfolios  and  rum- 
maged for  a  new  tragedy ;  for  even  the  most  servile  minister 
hesitated  to  launch  a  bolt  at  a  man  who  had  just  given  Paris 
a  new  pleasure  and  the  king's  reign  a  new  glory.  But  now 
the  hostile  faction  disinterred  a  rival  to  Voltaire  in  the  drama 
itself. 

Crdbillon,  the  dramatist  of  a  former  generation,  was  still  liv- 
ing, seventy-four  years  of  age,  in  obscurity,  most  of  his  great 
successes  of  other  days  forgotten.  He  had  written  effective 
tragedies,  chiefly  remarkable  for  their  power  to  excite  terror. 
Being  questioned,  after  the  successful  production  of  one  of  his 
terrific  plays,  "  L'Atree,"  as  to  his  reason  for  choosing  that 
line,  he  answered,  "  Corneille  has  appropriated  heaven,  and 
Racine  the  earth.  Nothing  remained  for  me  but  hell,  and  I 
threw  myself  into  it  headlong."  Marmontel,  who  was  now  an 
established  man  of  letters,  a  favorite  of  the  reigning  mistress, 
was  an  eye-witness  of  the  attempt  made  to  resuscitate  the 
aged  poet,  and  restore  to  him  the  first  place  in  the  drama  of 
France. 

"  Crebillon  [be  tells  us],  old  and  poor,  was  living  in  the  vilest  part 
of  the  Marais,  laboring  by  starts  at  that  '  Catiliua '  which  he  had  an- 
nounced for  ten  years,  and  of  which  he  read  here  and  there  some  bits 
of  scenes  that  were  thought  admirable.  His  age,  his  former  success, 
his  somewhat  rough  manners,  his  soldier-like  character,  his  truly  trag- 
ical face,  the  air,  the  imposing  though  simple  tone  in  which  he  recited 
his  harsh  and  inharmonious  verses,  the  vigor,  the  energy,  he  gave  to 
his  expression,  all  concurred  to  strike  the  mind  with  a  sort  of  enthusi- 
asm. 

"  The  name  of  Crdbillon  was  the  rallying  cry  for  the  enemies  of 
Voltaire.  '  Electre  '  and  '  Rhadamiste,'  which  were  sometimes  still 
played,  drew  but  thin  houses.  All  the  rest  of  Crebillon's  tragedies 
were  forgotten  ;  while  those  of  Voltaire, '  Qidipe,'  '  Alzire,' '  Mahomet,' 
'  Zaire,'  and  '  Merope,'  were  often  performed  in  all  the  splendor  of  full 
success.  The  partisans  of  old  Crebillon  were  few,  but  noisy.  They 
did  not  cease  to  call  him  the  Sophocles  of  our  age ;  and,  even  among 
men  of  letters,  Marivaux  used  to  say  that  all  the  fine  wit  of  Voltaire 
must  bow  before  the  genius  of  Crebillon. 

"  It  was  mentioned  before  Madame  de  Pompadour  that  this  great, 


584  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

neglected  man  was  suffered  to  grow  old  without  support,  because  he 
was  witliout  art  and  intrigue.  This  was  touching  her  in  a  tender 
part.  *  What  say  you  ? '  cried  she.  '  Crebillon  poor  and  forsaken  ! ' 
She  instantly  obtained  for  him  a  pension  of  two  thousand  francs  from 
the  privy  purse. 

"  Crebillon  was  eager  to  thank  his  benefactress.  A  slight  indispo- 
sition kept  her  in  bed  when  he  was  announced.  She  desired  he  might 
come  in.  The  sight  of  this  fine  old  man  touched  her ;  she  received 
him  with  an  affecting  grace.  He  was  moved  by  it ;  and,  as  he  leaned 
over  her  bed  to  kiss  her  hand,  the  king  appeared.  '  Ah,  madame,' 
cried  Crebillon,  '  the  king  has  surprised  us  !  I  am  lost.'  This  sally 
from  an  old  man  of  (nearly)  eighty  pleased  the  king.  The  fortune  of 
Crebillon  was  decided.  All  the  little  courtiers  launched  into  praises  of 
his  genius  and  manners.  '  He  had  dignity,'  said  they,  '  but  no  pride, 
and  still  less  vainglory.  His  poverty  was  the  proof  of  his  disinterest- 
edness. He  was  a  venerable  character,  and  the  man  whose  genius 
truly  honored  the  reign  of  the  king.'  '  Catilina '  was  mentioned  as 
the  wonder  of  the  age.  Madame  de  Pompadour  wished  to  hear  it.  A 
day  was  fixed  for  the  reading ;  the  king,  present,  but  invisible,  heard 
it  also.  It  had  complete  success ;  and,  on  its  first  performance,  Ma- 
dame de  Pompadour,  accompanied  by  a  crowd  of  courtiers,  attended 
with  the  most  lively  interest.  A  little  time  afterward  Crebillon  ob- 
tained the  favor  of  an  edition  of  his  works  at  the  press  of  the  Louvre, 
the  expense  defrayed  by  the  royal  treasury.  From  that  time  Voltaire 
was  coldly  received,  and  he  left  off  going  to  court." 

The  reader  does  not  need  to  be  informed  that  Voltaire  was 
not  the  person  to  submit  to  an  intrigue  of  this  nature.  His 
way  of  meeting  it  was  one  possible  only  to  himself.  He  se- 
lected for  the  theme  of  his  next  tragedy  the  story  of  S^mira- 
mis,  Queen  of  Babylon,  a  subject  which  had  once  been  treated 
by  Crebillon.  The  success  of  this  powerful  play  was  not  as 
decided  as  Longchamp  imagined.  All  depended  upon  the  ghost 
scene,  which  the  author  again  attempted,  still  remembering 
the  effect  of  the  ghost  in  Hamlet  on  the  London  stage.  But 
the  crowd  of  dandies  on  the  stage  left,  as  Voltaire  remarked, 
"  scarcely  more  than  a  space  of  ten  feet  wide  for  the  actors," 
and  thus  the  awful  power  of  the  ghost  scene  in  the  third 
act,  so  necessary  to  the  effect  of  the  later  scenes,  was  fatally 
marred.  On  the  succeeding  nights,  more  room  was  retained 
for  the  actors ;  and  unprejudiced  spectators  agreed  in  assign- 
ing this  tragedy  a  rank  among  the  masterpieces  of  the  French 


HOUSEHOLDER  IN  PARIS.  585 

drama.  It  has  retained  its  place  on  the  stage  to  this  day. 
But,  for  the  moment,  it  failed  of  the  effect  the  author,  at  the 
moment,  desired.  The  forced  success  of  Crebillon's  "■  Cati- 
lina  "  followed.  Voltaire,  as  we  have  seen,  was  roused  by  it 
to  write  a  tragedy  upon  the  same  subject,  and,  almost  before 
the  ink  was  dry,  threw  himself  upon  another  of  Crciibillon's 
subjects,  —  "  Electre,"  —  and  produced  a  tragedy  which  he  en- 
titled "  Oreste."  These  two  pieces  —  "Rome  Sauvc^e"  and 
"  Oreste  "  —  were  in  the  author's  portfolio,  though  still  under 
revision,  when  he  returned  to  Paris  after  the  death  of  Madame 
du  Chatelet  in  October,  1749. 

The  very  actors  had  caught  the  infection  of  his  ill-favor  at 
court.  They  had  been  restive  under  his  exactions  for  the  due 
presentation  of  "  Semiramis,"  the  short  run  of  which  had  not 
tended  to  make  them  more  submissive.  He  would  have  four 
men  in  the  wings  to  extinguish  the  candles,  and  another  man 
to  lower  the  foot-lights,  in  order  to  "  execute  the  night,"  on 
the  appearance  of  the  ghost.  He  was  himself  a  good  actor,  and 
he  had,  as  all  good  actors  have,  the  stage-manager's  instinct 
sensitively  alive.  He  insisted  on  having  his  dramatic  concep- 
tions conveyed  to  his  audiences  as  vividly  as  the  art  permitted. 
One  result  of  the  imperfect  success  of  "  Semiramis  "  and  the 
ostentatious  "  protection  "  bestowed  upon  Cr^billon  "  was  an 
ill-feeling  between  himself  and  the  company  of  actors  attached 
to  the  Theatre-Fran cais.  "  Sarrasin,"  he  wrote  to  D'Argental, 
"spoke  to  me  with  much  more  than  indecency  when  I  begged 
him,  on  behalf  of  the  public,  to  put  into  his  plajang  more  soul 
and  more  dignity.  There  are  four  or  five  of  the  actors  who 
refuse  me  the  salute,  because  I  made  them  appear  upon  the 
stage  as  silent  spectators.  La  None  has  declaimed  against  the 
piece  much  more  loftily  than  he  declaimed  his  part.  In  a 
word,  I  have  experienced  from  them  nothing  but  ingratitude 
and  insolence." 

Established  now  in  a  spacious  house  of  his  own,  his  melan- 
choly in  some  degree  dispelled,  his  friends  and  family  about 
him,  he  resolved  to  dispense  with  these  ungrateful  actors,  Avith- 
out  de^oriving  himself  of  the  pleasure  their  art  had  afforded 
him.  He  had  a  great  room  in  his  second  stoiy  arranged  as  a 
little  theatre,  capable  of  seating  a  hundred  persons  and  of  con- 
taining a  hundred  and  twenty.     Longchamp  had  brought  him 


686  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

a  good  account  of  a  company  of  young  amateurs,  who  were  in 
the  habit  of  playing  for  their  own  amusement  twice  a  week  in 
a  hall  hired  by  themselves,  and  Voltaire  sent  them  a  polite  in- 
vitation to  visit  him.  One  of  these  amateurs  was  a  goldsmith's 
son,  named  Lekain,  then  just  of  age,  who  was  destined  to  a 
long  and  splendid  career  upon  the  Paris  stage.  It  was  the 
ever  assiduous  Longchamp  who  bore  Voltaire's  invitation  to 
the  company. 

"  My  message  [he  says]  was  received  by  all  of  them  with  as  much 
joy  as  surprise.  They  promised  to  call  upon  M.  de  Voltaire,  and  it 
was  agreed  that  they  should  come  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  On 
the  day  fixed,  the  entire  troupe,  including  even  the  candle-snuffer, 
arrived  punctually  at  the  rendezvous.  No  one  on  that  day  had 
neglected  his  toilet,  and  all  those  young  people  were  extremely  well 
dressed.  I  conducted  them  to  the  drawing-room.  A  moment  after, 
M.  de  Voltaire  appeared.  He  began  by  thanking  them  for  their 
good-will  and  for  complying  with  his  desire  so  promptly.  Address- 
ing each  in  turn,  he  ascertained  their  line  of  parts  and  the  pieces 
in  which  they  played  with  most  success.  He  questioned  Lekain 
much,  whom  I  had  described  as  the  best  performer  of  the  company. 
Then  he  invited  the  five  or  six  principal  actors  to  declaim  some  pas- 
sage taken  indifferently  from  one  of  their  parts.  In  general,  he  ap- 
peared tolerably  satisfied  ;  he  encouraged  them,  and  promised  them  some 
instruction  from  which  their  talent  could  profit  if  they  were  willing 
to  receive  it  with  docility.  At  length,  in  order  to  judge  them  better, 
he  engaged  them  to  come  the  next  day,  towards  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  to  play  upon  his  stage  the  tragedy  they  knew  best.  They 
acquiesced  at  once  in  this  request,  and  several  voices  said  that  the 
tragedy  which  they  played  most  willingly  and  successfully  was  '  Ma- 
homet, the  Prophet.'  A  desire  to  pay  court  to  the  author  of  tliat 
piece  may  have  had  some  influence  in  determining  their  choice. 

"  However  that  may  be,  the  thing  was  so  arranged,  and  the  next 
day  they  played  the  tragedy  of  '  Mahomet '  in  the  hall  he  had  pre- 
pared, the  only  spectators  being  M.  de  Voltaire,  Madame  Denis,  M. 
and  Madame  d'Argental,  the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  and  M.  de  Pont- 
de-Veyle,  a  brother  of  M.  d'Argental.  I  also  was  present  at  this 
representation,  according  to  the  injunction  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  Two 
or  three  persons  attached  to  the  house  may  also  have  been  there. 
Lekain  played  with  force  and  intelligence,  and,  ahove  all,  with  much 
earnestness,  the  part  of  Mahomet,  which  he  has  since  performed  in  a 
manner  so  superior  upon  the  public  stage.  The  other  parts  were 
played  sufficiently  well.     M.  de  Voltaire  saw  with  pleasure  the  union 


HOUSEHOLDER  IN  PARIS.  587 

of  those  young  people,  their  zeal,  their  correctness,  and  the  unity 
which  they  knew  how  to  give  to  the  execution  of  his  piece,  though 
they  were  occasionally  interrupted.  This  performance  was,  to  speak 
precisely,  only  a  general  rehearsal.  The  author  stop{)ed  the  actors 
from  time  to  time,  and  made  them  begin  a  scene  again,  showing  to 
each  the  gesture  and  tone  suitable  to  his  part  and  to  the  situation. 

"  Upon  the  whole,  he  was  well  enough  content  with  this  first  per- 
formance, lie  invited  both  actors  and  spectators  to  remain  to  sup- 
per, and,  at  the  end  of  the  repast,  he  brought  the  parts  of  his 
'  Rome  Sauvee,'  and  distributed  them  to  those  young  people,  request- 
ing them  to  learn  their  parts  as  soon  as  they  could He  en- 
gaged Lekain,  in  whom  he  discovered  the  germ  of  a  superior  talent, 
to  come  and  live  with  him,  a  proposal  which  was  accepted  with  ardor 
by  that  young  man. 

"  When  the  roles  of  '  Rome  Sauvee'  were  well  learned,  it  was  re- 
hearsed several  times,  M.  de  Voltaire  giving  himself  much  trouble 
to  direct  and  form  the  aotors.  At  length,  all  being  arranged  to  his 
mind,  he  wished  to  have  the  piece  played  before  a  company  of  con- 
noisseurs, to  get  their  judgment  upon  it.  To  complete  the  illusion, 
he  desired  that  all  the  accessories  should  be  in  accord  with  the  sub- 
ject of  the  play.  For  that  purpose,  a  considerable  number  of  new 
costumes  in  the  Roman  style  were  necessary,  which  could  not  be  made 
without  much  time  and  expense.  He  conceived  the  plan  of  borrow- 
ing for  the  purpose  the  superb  dresses  and  magnificent  properties  pro- 
vided by  the  court  for  the  '  Catilina '  of  Crebillon,  played  some  time 
before  with  great  pomp,  both  at  court  and  in  the  city.  All  those  effects 
were  preserved  with  care  at  the  Theatre-Fran^ais,  where  they  were 
again  to  be  used  before  long  for  the  same  play,  though  it  had  already 
had  thirty  or  forty  representations.  This  run  was  in  consequence  of 
the  high  protection  accorded  then  to  Crebillon, —  a  protection  prepared 
and  obtained  by  the  intrigues  of  a  cabal  envenomed  against  M.  de 
Voltaire,  whom  they  thought  to  abase  and  annihilate  by  exalting  Cre- 
billon  M.  de  Voltaire  asked  M.  de  Richelieu  to  grant  him  for 

a  single  day  the  costumes  which  had  been  made  for  '  Catilina.'  The 
First  Gentleman  of  the  Chamber  consenting  without  difficulty,  all  was 
sent  to  tlie  Rue  Traversiere,  and  nothing  now  delayed  the  representa- 
tion of  '  Rome  Sauvee.' 

"  On  the  day  appointed,  the  hall  was  filled  at  an  early  hour.  Only 
a  very  few  ladies  were  present,  the  audience  consisting  principally  of 
men  of  letters  ;  among  others,  MM.  D'Alembert,  Diderot,  Marmontel, 
the  President  Henault,  the  Abbes  de  Voisenou  and  Raynal,  and  sev- 
eral Academicians,  such  as  the  Abbe  d'Olivet  and  others.  The  Dukes 
de  Richelieu  and  de  la  Valliere  attended,  and   some  other  intimate 


588  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

friends  of  the  author,  whom  I  had  invited  on  his  part.  Among  them 
were  particularly  remarked  Father  de  la  Tour,  principal  of  the  Col- 
lege of  the  Jesuits  [Louis-le-Grand],  and  his  companion.  These  fa- 
thers never  attended  any  plays  except  those  which  were  given  by 
their  scholars  in  college  ;  but  M.  de  Voltaire,  who  had  read  his  tragedy 
to  Father  de  la  Tour,  and  had  received  from  him  strong  compliments 
thereupon,  so  pressed  him  to  come  and  see  it  played  that  he  consented. 
The  actors,  kindled  by  the  presence  of  so  many  enlightened  judges, 
put  into  the  performance  of  their  parts  all  the  fire  of  which  they  were 
capable.  The  audience,  in  general,  seemed  very  well  satisfied  with 
them,  but  were  still  more  so  with  the  piece.  They  admired  the  beauty 
of  the  poetry,  the  force  and  truth  of  the  characters  ;  and  connois- 
seurs agreed  that,  in  these  respects,  '  Rome  Sauvee '  was  equal  to  the 
best  of  M.  de  Voltaire's  plays. 

"  The  Abbe  d'Olivet  was  especially  enchanted,  and  he  openly  testi- 
fied his  joy  and  his  gratitude  to  the  author  for  having  at  last  avenged 
his  dear  Cicero  for  the  flat  and  ridiculous  part  which  old  Crebillon 
had  made  him  play  in  his  '  Catiliua.'  After  the  performance,  M.  de 
Voltaire  could  not  doubt  the  general  satisfaction.  Every  one  was 
eager  to  testify  it  to  him,  and  urged  him  not  to  deprive  the  public  of 
so  beautiful  a  work. 

"  The  fame  of  the  little  theatre  of  the  Rue  Traversiere  rapidly 
spread  over  all  Paris.  Though  established  first  by  M.  de  Voltaire 
only  for  the  purpose  of  trying  his  new  pieces,  it  became  in  a  short 
time  almost  a  public  theatre.  His  friends,  whom  he  had  at  first  ad- 
mitted, solicited  the  same  favor  for  others.  Persons  of  consideration, 
foreigners  of  note,  who  knew  him  only  by  reputation,  sought  admis- 
sion, and  he  had  not  the  force  to  refuse.  I  have  seen  more  than  one 
minister  and  more  than  one  ambassador  present.  It  was  necessary, 
at  last,  to  have  tickets,  the  bearers  of  which  alone  should  be  admit- 
ted. By  means  of  some  steps  along  the  sides  of  the  room,  which 
M.  de  Voltaire  called  his  boxes,  about  a  hundred  persons  could  find 
seats,  while  at  least  twenty  others,  standing  in  a  kind  of  vestibule,  could 
also  enjoy  the  play. 

"  The  fame  of  the  tragedy  of  '  Rome  Sauvee '  gave  many  people 
a  desire  to  see  it.  A  second  representation  was  given,  which  was 
more  remarkable  than  the  first,  and  produced  a  more  lively  sensation. 
"Without  notifying  any  of  the  spectators  except  three  or  four,  M.  de 
Voltaire  himself  played  the  part  of  Cicero,  as  he  had  done  once  be- 
fore at  the  chateau  of  Madame  la  Duchesse  du  Maine  at  Sceaux  some 
weeks  previously.  He  excited  the  same  enthusiasm  at  Paris.  Some 
persons  whom  I  saw  thirty  years  after  that  representation,  and  who 
had  been  witnesses  of  it  with  me,  spoke  to  me  of  it  with  as  much  in- 


I 


I 


HOUSEHOLDER   IN  PARIS.  589 

terest  as  if  it  had  taken  place  the  evening  before.  Some  time  after, 
M.  de  Voltaire  tried  his  tragedy  of  the  '  Due  de  Foix.'  I  saw  played, 
also,  by  the  little  troupe  of  amateurs,  '  Zulime,'  —  a  piece  formerly 
represented,  but  little  more  known  than  the  play  last  named.  Two 
nieces  of  the  author  appeared  in  it  together :  Madame  Denis  in  the 
part  of  Zulime,  and  Madame  de  Fontaine  in  that  of  Ative.  They 
played  tolerably  well,  and  must  have  been  flattered  by  the  reception 
which  the  audience  gave  them. 

"  The  company  of  the  Thea,tre-Fran9ais  could  not  be  unaware  of 
the  celebrity  of  the  theatre  in  the  Rue  Traversiere.  Some  of  them, 
against  whom  M.  de  Voltaire  had  no  complaint,  ventured  to  come  to 
him  and  ask  the  favor  of  being  admitted  to  his  theatre.  They  were 
not  ill  received  ;  for,  before  they  left,  M.  de  Voltaire  called  me,  and 
told  me  to  give  them  two  tickets  for  each  of  the  next  four  represen- 
tations. The  actors  thus  obliged  gave  an  account  to  their  comrades 
of  the  new  pieces  which  they  saw  performed.  The  company  felt  that 
those  pieces  would  have  been  very  useful  to  their  theatre,  which  lan- 
guished for  want  of  interesting  novelties.  They  began  to  realize  their 
past  imprudence,  and  to  feel  how  wrong  they  had  been  in  giving 
M.  de  Voltaire  cause  to  be  dissatisfied.  They  no  longer  concealed 
their  desire  to  atone  for  their  fault.  This  being  the  posture  of  affairs, 
M.  d'Argental  and  M.  de  Pont-de-Veyle,  his  brother,  coming  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  actors'  disposition,  undertook  to  reconcile  M.  de 
Voltaire  to  them,  and  thus  promote  the  enjoyment  of  the  public,  who 
eagerly  desired  to  see  those  pieces  played,  of  which  they  had  heard  so 
much.  These  were  the  two  brothers  whom  he  called  sometimes  his 
guardian  angels,  and  sometimes  Castor  and  Pollux,  alluding  to  the 
tutelary  divinities  who  restored  hope  and  courage  to  sailors  beaten 
by  a  tempest.  Their  friendship,  beginning  in  childhood,  was  always 
extremely  precious  and  useful  to  M.  de  Voltaire  in  all  the  circum- 
stances of  his  life,  and  deserved  the  names  which  he  took  pleasure  in 
giving  them. 

"  On  the  present  occasion,  those  gentlemen  spoke  to  the  most  in- 
fluential actors,  and  made  them  feel  the  propriety  of  sending  him  a 
dejiutation  to  ask  him  to  open  for  them  his  portfolio.  The  deputa- 
tion arrived,  having  at  its  head  as  orator  M.  Grandval.  His  address, 
the  object  of  which  was  to  calm  M.  de  Voltaire,  asked  the  oblivion  of 
all  past  wrongs,  and  promised  that  the  recollection  of  those  wrongs 
should  be  entirely  effaced  from  his  mind  by  their  future  conformity  to 
all  his  desires.  Grandval  ended  his  speech  by  entreating  the  poet, 
the  adthor  of  so  many  masterpieces,  to  take  the  company  again  into 
favor,  and  restore  to  them  his  works.  M.  de  Voltaire  never  knew 
how  to  keep  rancor  when  any  one  returned  to  him  in  good  faith ; 


590  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

and,  in  fact,  I  have  in  other  circumstances  seen  him  pardon  and  forget 
graver  injuries  when  confession  was  made  and  repentance  shown.  He 
was  not  insensible  to  this  proceeding  of  the  actors,  gave  a  good  recep- 
tion to  the  deputation,  and  promised  compliance  with  its  request.  The 
difference  between  them  was  so  terminated." 

We  possess,  also,  Lekain's  recollection  of  his  interviews  and 
residence  with  Voltaire  during  this  important  year,  -which 
fixed  his  destiny.  He,  too,  mentions  his  surprise  and  delight 
upon  being  invited  to  visit  the  author,  who  was  the  first  of  liv- 
ing men  in  his  regard. 

"  The  pleasure  [he  tells  us]  which  this  invitation  gave  me  was  still 
greater  than  my  surprise.  But  what  I  cannot  describe  is  my  feeling 
at  the  sight  of  that  man,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  the  fire  of  imagi- 
nation and  of  genius.  On  addressing  him  I  felt  myself  penetrated 
with  respect,  enthusiasm,  admiration,  and  fear.  All  these  sensations 
at  once  I  experienced,  when  M.  de  Voltaire  had  the  goodness  to  put 
an  end  to  my  embarrassment  by  folding  me  in  his  arms,  and  thanking 
God  for  having  created  a  being  who  had  kindled  and  moved  him  by 
the  delivery  of  verses  that  were  not  too  good. 

"  He  questioned  me  upon  my  condition,  upon  that  of  my  father, 
upon  the  manner  in  which  I  had  been  brought  up,  upon  my  ideas  of 
fortune.  After  having  satisfied  him  upon  all  these  points,  and  after 
having  taken  my  share  of  a  dozen  cups  of  chocolate,  mixed  with  cof- 
fee, his  only  nourishment  from  five  in  the  morning  until  three  in  the 
afternoon,  I  replied  to  him  with  intrepid  firmness  that  I  knew  no 
other  happiness  in  life  than  to  play  upon  the  stage  ;  that,  a  cruel  and 
melancholy  chance  having  left  me  my  own  master,  and  possessing  a 
little  patrimony  of  about  seven  hundred  and  fifty  francs  per  annum, 
I  had  reason  to  hope  that  in  abandoning  the  trade  and  skill  of  my  fa- 
ther I  should  not  sustain  any  loss,  if  I  could  one  day  be  admitted  into 
the  king's  troupe  of  actors. 

"  'Ah,  my  friend,'  cried  M.  de  Voltaire,  '  never  do  that !  Take  my 
advice  :  act  for  your  pleasure,  but  never  make  acting  your  business. 
It  is  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  rare,  the  most  difficult,  of  talents ; 
but  it  is  abased  by  barbarians  and  proscribed  by  hypocrites.  One  day 
France  will  value  your  art  aright ;  but  then  there  will  be  no  more 
Barons,  no  more  Lecouvreurs,  no  more  D'Angevilles.  If  you  are 
willing  to  renounce  your  project,  I  will  lend  you  ten  thousand  francs 
to  go  into  business  for  yourself,  and  you  shall  pay  me  back  when  you 
can.  Go,  my  friend  ;  come  and  see  me  toward  the  end  of  the  week ; 
consider  the  subject  well,  and  give  me  a  positive  answer.' 

"  Stunned,  confused,  and  penetrated  even  to  tears  by  the  obligmg 


1 


m 


HOUSEHOLDER  IN  PARIS.  691 

and  generous  offers  of  that  great  man,  who  was  called  avaricious, 
hard,  and  jiitiless,  I  wished  to  pour  out  my  thanks.  Finally  I  adopted 
the  plan  of  making  my  bow  while  stammering  a  few  words,  and  I 
was  going  to  take  my  leave,  when  he  called  me  back  to  ask  me  to  re- 
peat some  fragments  of  the  parts  I  had  already  played.  Without 
consideration,  I  proposed  to  him,  with  little  enough  tact,  the  grand 
passage  from  the  second  act  of  Piron's  '  Gustave.'  '  No  Piron,  no 
Piron,'  said  he,  with  a  voice  thundering  and  tei*rible  :  '  I  do  not  like 
bad  verses.     Speak  all  you  know  of  Racine.' 

"  Fortunately,  I  remembered  that,  while  at  the  College  Mazarin,  I 
had  learned  the  whole  tragedy  of  '  Athalie '  from  having  heard  it  often 
rehearsed  by  the  scholars  who  were  going  to  play  it.  I  began  at  the 
first  scene,  playing  alternately  Abner  and  Joab.  But  I  had  not  yet 
entirely  completed  my  task,  when  M.  de  Voltaire  cried  out  with  a  di- 
vine enthusiasm,  — 

"  '  Oh  !  mon  Dieu  !  the  lovely  verses  !  And  the  wonder  is  that  all 
the  piece  is  written  with  the  same  warmth,  the  same  purity,  from  the 
first  scene  to  the  last.  Everywhere  in  it  the  poetry  is  inimitable. 
Good-by,  my  dear  child,*  embracing  me.  '  I  predict  that  you  will 
one  day  rend  the  heart,  but  be  the  delight,  of  Paris.  But  never  go 
upon  the  public  stage.' 

"  Such  is  an  exact  account  of  my  first  interview  with  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. The  second  was  more  decisive,  since  he  consented,  after  the 
most  urgent  entreaties  on  my  part,  to  receive  me  into  his  house,  and 
let  me  play  with  his  nieces  and  all  my  company  in  his  little  thea- 
tre  

"  The  expense  which  this  temporary  establishment  caused  him  and 
the  disinterested  offer  which  he  made  me  some  days  before  proved  to 
me  in  a  very  touching  manner  that  he  was  as  generous  and  noble  in 
his  proceedings  as  his  enemies  were  unjust  in  ascribing  to  him  the  vice 
of  sordid  economy.  These  are  facts  of  which  I  have  been  a  witness. 
I  owe  still  another  avowal  to  the  truth ;  not  only  did  M.  de  Voltaire 
aid  me  by  his  counsels  for  more  than  six  months,  but  he  paid  my  ex- 
penses during  that  time ;  and  since  I  have  belonged  to  the  stage  I  can 
prove  that  he  has  given  me  more  than  two  thousand  crowns.  He  calls 
me  to-day  his  gi-eat  actor,  his  Garrick,  his  dear  child.  These  titles  I 
owe  only  to  his  goodness  ;  but  the  title  which  I  adopt  at  the  bottom 
of  my  heart  is  that  of  a  pupil,  respectful  and  penetrated  with  grati- 
tude." 

Lekain  adds  an  anecdote  of  the  dramatist's  mode  of  drilling 
the  troupe  :  — 

"  A  very  young  and  pretty  girl,  daughter  of  a  solicitor  to  the  par- 


592  LIFE   OF   VOLTAII^E. 

liament,  played  with  me  the  part  of  Palmiie  in  '  Mahomet,'  in  the 
theatre  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  This  amiable  child,  only  fifteen,  was  far 
from  being  able  to  deliver  with  force  and  energy  the  imprecations 
against  her  tyrant.  She  was  merely  young,  pretty,  and  interesting. 
He  therefore  treated  her  with  a  great  deal  of  tenderness,  and,  to  show 
her  how  far  she  was  from  being  up  to  her  part,  he  said  to  her,  — 

'•  'Mademoiselle,  imagine  that  Mahomet  is  an  impostor,  a  cheat,  a 
scoundrel,  who  has  had  your  father  stabbed,  has  just  poisoned  your 
brother,  and  who,  to  crown  his  good  works,  absolutely  wishes  to  pos- 
sess you.  If  all  these  trifles  give  you  a  certain  pleasure,  ah  !  then  you 
are  right  in  treating  him  so  gently  as  you  do ;  but  if  his  behavior  gives 
you  rather  some  repugnance,  why,  then,  mademoiselle,  this  is  how  you 
ought  to  address  him.' 

"  Then,  repeating  the  imprecation,  he  gave  to  that  poor  innocent 
child,  red  with  shame  and  trembling  with  fear,  a  lesson  so  much  the 
more  precious  since  he  joined  example  to  precept.  She  became  in 
time  a  very  agreeable  actress." 

Thus  it  was  that  he  found  consolation  in  the  art  of  which  he 
was  a  votary  for  sixty  years,  —  an  art  which  was  the  ambition 
of  his  youth,  the  occupation  of  his  happiest  hours,  the  solace  of 
his  old  age,  his  first  triumph  and  his  last.  His  peace  was 
now  made  with  the  actors  of  the  national  theatre,  and  he  could 
resume  at  any  moment  his  career  as  national  dramatist.  Ho 
put  the  docility  of  the  company  at  once  to  a  severe  test.  Hav- 
ing invited  them,  with  the  D'Argentals  and  a  few  other  devo- 
tees of  the  drama,  to  the  reading  of  a  new  tragedy,  he  read  to 
them,  not  "  Rome  Sauv^e,"  which  they  expected  and  desired, 
but  his  new  "  Electre,"  which  he  now  called  "  Oreste,"  a 
piece  after  Sophocles,  in  the  severe  and  simple  taste  of  the 
Greek  master.  Crebillon  had  once  treated  the  subject  with 
some  success,  though  his  "  Electre  "  had  ceased  to  be  per- 
formed. Voltaire  adhered  closely  to  the  Greek  system,  dis- 
carding love,  and  presenting  the  awful  story  in  the  austere,  un- 
compromising manner  of  the  Greeks.  The  actors  looked  blank 
when  he  began  the  session  by  reading  the  list  of  characters. 

"  You  expected,"  said  the  author,  "  that  I  was  to  give  you 
a  reading  of  'Catilina.'  Not  at  all,  gentlemen.  This  year  I 
give  you  '  Oreste,'  and  I  shall  not  have  '  Catilina '  played 
until  next  year.  Now  for  the  distribution  of  the  rdles.  I  ask 
the  most  profound  secrecy." 

The  explanation  of  this  change  was  very  simple,  if  he  had 


m. 


HOUSEHOLDER   IN  PARIS.  593 

chosen  to  give  it.  The  exigencies  of  the  theatre  obliged  the 
actors  to  produce  something  new  within  a  few  days,  and  the 
author  would  not  entrust  the  presentation  of  his  beloved  Cic- 
ero, and  the  complicated  drama  of  which  he  had  made  Cicero 
the  central  figure,  until  it  could  be  thoroughly  rehearsed.  The 
company  submitted  with  a  good  grace;  the  parts  were  dis- 
tributed, and  the  rehearsals  were  begun.  At  this  distance  of 
time,  in  a  country  where  the  arts  exist,  as  it  were,  by  suffer- 
ance, and  the  drama  is  burdened  with  odium  and  disadvantage, 
we  can  with  difficulty  conceive  the  interest  taken  by  the  pub- 
lic in  this  stiuggle  between  Voltaire  and  the  court  on  the  stage 
of  the  Thdatre-Fran^ais.  The  polite  world  of  Paris  was  agi- 
tated. When  the  "  Catilina  "  of  Cr^billon  was  performed  in 
1748,  not  only  did  the  king  pay  the  whole  cost  of  the  costumes 
and  appointments,  but  the  court  seconded  the  attempt  to  cast 
Voltaire  into  the  shade.  Barbier  tells  us  that  for  the  three 
opening  nights  all  the  boxes  were  taken  a  month  in  advance. 
The  princes  and  princesses  of  the  royal  blood  made  a  point  of 
attending.  Servile  critics  vied  with  one  another  in  extolling 
the  piece,  and  by  these  arts  a  play  insufferably  tedious  achieved 
twenty  representations. 

And  now  again  Paris  was  astir  at  the  announcement  of  Vol- 
taire's "  Oreste."  Piron,  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  took  the 
lead  of  the  cabal  against  the  new  piece,  and  Voltaire,  I  need 
not  say,  omitted  no  expedient  to  give  it  a  fair  chance  of  suc- 
cess. The  dread  night  arrived,  January  12,  1750.  Both  par- 
ties mustered  in  prodigious  numbers.  So  zealous  were  the  oppo- 
nents of  the  piece  that,  according  to  Duverney,  some  of  them 
hissed  in  the  street,  and  they  kept  up  a  vigorous  hissing  in  the 
theatre,  long  before  the  play  began.  The  author  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  write  a  short  address  to  the  public,  to  disarm 
those  who  pretended  that  this  was  an  ungracious  struggle  on 
his  part  against  a  veteran.  One  of  the  actors  came  forward 
and  spoke  as  follows :  — 

"  Gentlemen, —  The  author  of  the  tragedy  which  we  are  about  to 
have  the  honor  of  presenting  to  you  has  not  the  rash  vanity  to  wish 
to  contend  against  the  play  of  '  Electre,'  justly  honored  by  your  ap- 
plause, still  less  against  a  fellow  artist,  whom  he  has  often  called  Mas- 
ter, and  who  has  inspired  in  him  only  a  noble  emulation,  equally  re- 
mote from  discouragement  and  from  envy,  —  an  emulation  compatible 

VOL.  I.  38 


594  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

with  friendship,  and  such  as  men  of  letters  ought  to  cherish.  He  has 
only  wished,  gentlemen,  to  hazard  before  you  a  picture  of  antiquity. 
When  you  shall  have  judged  this  feeble  sketch  of  a  masterpiece  of 
past  ages,  you  will  return  to  the  delineations  more  brilliant  and  varied 
of  celebrated  moderns.  The  Athenians,  who  invented  this  great  art, 
which  the  French  alone  upon  the  earth  cultivate  with  success,  en- 
couraged three  of  their  citizens  to  labor  upon  the  same  subject.  You, 
gentlemen,  in  whom  to-day  we  see  live  again  that  people,  as  famous 
for  their  genius  as  their  courage,  —  you,  who  possess  their  taste,  will 
have  their  justice  also.  The  author  who  presents  to  you  an  imitation 
of  the  antique  is  much  more  sure  to  find  in  you  Athenians  than  he 
flatters  himself  to  have  rendered  Sophocles.  You  know  that  Greece, 
in  all  its  masterpieces,  in  all  the  kinds  of  poetry  and  eloquence,  de- 
sired that  beauties  should  be  simple.  You  will  find  that  simplicity  in 
this  piece,  and  you  will  discern  the  beauties  of  the  original  despite 
the  faults  of  the  copy ;  you  will  deign,  above  all,  to  accommodate 
yourselves  to  some  usages  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  for  in  the  arts  they 
are  your  veritable  ancestors.  France,  which  follows  in  their  footsteps, 
Avill  not  censure  their  customs  ;  you  are  to  consider  that  already  your 
taste,  especially  in  dramatic  works,  serves  as  a  model  to  other  nations. 
It  will  suffice  one  day  to  be  approved  elsewhere  that  it  should  be 
said.  Such  was  the  taste  of  the  French  ;  it  was  so  that  illustrious 
nation  spoke  !  We  ask  your  indulgence  for  the  manners  of  antiquity 
for  the  same  reason  that  Europe,  in  the  ages  to  come,  will  render 
justice  to  yours." 

This  ingenious  oration  sufficed  not  to  conciliate  the  enemy. 
The  performance  began.  During  the  first  four  acts,  as  Du- 
verney  records,  it  was  a  contest  of  applause  and  hisses,  which 
was  amusing,  at  length,  even  to  the  author.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  the  stern  and  awful  trails  caught  from  Sophocles 
silenced  opponents  and  carried  the  audience  away.  There  was 
one  such  moment  at  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  act,  when  the 
applause  seemed  unanimous  and  enthusiastic.  But  even  then 
the  author  perceived  that  it  was  only  his  friends  who  approved. 
He  rose,  and,  leaning  over  his  box,  cried  out,  "  Courage  ! 
Brave  Athenians,  applaud  !  That  is  pure  Sophocles  !  "  The 
conclusion  of  the  play,  however,  gave  the  enemy  another  op- 
portunity, and  the  author  discerned  that  he  had  carried  the 
Greek  severity  a  little  too  far.  Considering  all  the  circum- 
stances, and,  especially,  the  weight  and  power  of  the  opposing 
influences,  the  evening  was  regarded  as  a  triumph   for  the 


I 


HOUSEHOLDER  IN  PARIS.  695 

author.     He  at  once  revised  the  fifth  act^  and  strove,  with  all 
his  might  and  tact,  to  prolong  and  heighten  his  success. 

We  can  scarcely  wonder  that  the  actors  should  have  been 
sometimes  rebellious  under  his  demands.  His  letters  to  Made- 
moiselle Clairon,  during  the  run  of  this  piece,  leave  us  in 
doubt  whether  an  actress  ought  to  be  envied  or  pitied  for  hav- 
ing such  an  exacting  master.  After  giving  her  an  entirely  new 
fifth  act  and  a  considerable  list  of  changes  in  the  other  acts, 
all  to  be  learned  and  rehearsed  in  two  or  three  days,  he  still 
sends  her  other  trifling  changes,  as  well  as  mmute  instructions 
as  to  the  delivery  of  striking  passages.  But,  then,  how  hum- 
bly and  gracefully  he  apologizes  !  "  He  asks  her  pardon,  upon 
his  knees,  for  the  insolences  wdth  which  he  has  loaded  her  part. 
He  is  himself  so  docile  as  to  flatter  himself  that  talents  su- 
perior to  his  own  will  not  disdain,  m  their  turn,  the  observa- 
tions which  his  admiration  for  Mademoiselle  Clairon  has  ex- 
torted from  him."  Again,  a  day  or  two  after,  upon  sending 
her  another  change  :  "  It  is  only  by  a  continual  and  severe  ex- 
amination of  myself,  it  is  only  by  an  extreme  docility  to  wise 
counsels,  that  I  am  able  each  day  to  render  the  piece  less  un- 
worthy of  the  charms  which  you  lend  to  it.  If  you  had  a 
quarter  of  the  docility  in  which  I  glory,  you  would  add  some 
unique  perfections  to  those  with  which  you  now  adorn  your 
part."  Then,  after  a  series  of  hints,  he  adds,  "  By  observing 
these  little  artifices  of  art,  by  speaking  sometimes  without  de- 
claiming, by  thus  shading  the  beautiful  colors  which  yeu  throw 
over  the  pei-sonality  of  Electre,  you  would  actually  reach  that 
perfection  which  you  now  nearly  approach,  and  which  ought 
to  be  the  object  of  a  noble  and  feeling  soul.  Mine  feels  itself 
made  to  admire  and  advise  you  ;  but  if  you  wish  to  be  perfect, 
think  that  no  one  has  ever  been  perfect  without  listening  to 
advice,  and  that  one  ought  to  be  teachable  in  proportion  to  the 
greatness  of  his  talents." 

At  the  second  representation  of  the  piece,  if  we  may  be- 
lieve the  enemies  of  the  author,  the  theatre  was  half  filled 
with  his  hired  partisans,  who  earned  their  wages  so  faithfully 
that  opposition  was  almost  silenced.  Every  night,  as  one  of 
the  hostile  critics  has  recorded,  Voltaire  was  in  the  breach, 
animating  his  friends,  distributing  seats,  placing  his  paid  ap- 
plauders,  clapping  passages  himself,  and  crying  to  those  around 


596  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

him,  "  Clap,  my  dear  friends  !  Applaud,  my  dear  Atheni- 
ans !  "  Nevertheless,  with  all  his  efforts,  the  piece  at  this  time 
had  but  ten  representations.  This  was  a  respectable  success 
for  the  period,  and  the  play  called  forth  the  usual  fire  of  paro- 
dies, burlesques,  and  epigrams. 

What  an  incredible  activity  of  mind  was  his !  To  these 
months  belongs  a  pamphlet  by  him  upon  the  "Embellishment 
of  Paris,"  in  which  he  recommended  that  liberality  of  expendi- 
ture in  the  beautifying  of  the  city  which  has  since  made  it  the 
most  agreeable  place  of  residence  in  Europe.  He  dwelt  upon 
the  wise  economy  of  such  an  expenditure.  He  foretold,  what 
we  have  seen  come  to  pass,  that  the  influx  of  strangers  in 
quest  of  pleasure  would  cause  an  ample  return  from  the  money 
invested  in  noble  structures  and  beautiful  public  grounds. 
Paris  was  then  dark  and  heavy  with  ecclesiastical  edifices ;  its 
streets  were  narrow,  unclean,  and  ill-paved.  He  desired  Louis 
XV.  to  do  for  Paris  what  Louis  XIV.  had  done  for  Versailles, 
and  not  wait  for  a  great  fire  to  clear  the  way.  "  When  Lon- 
don was  consumed,  Europe  said,  '  London  will  not  be  rebuilt 
in  twenty  years,  and  even  then  it  will  show  the  traces  of  its 
disaster.'  It  was  rebuilt  in  two  years,  and  rebuilt  with  mag- 
nificence. What !  will  it  be  only  at  the  last  extremity  that 
we  shall  do  something  as  grand  ?  Such  an  enterprise  would 
encourage  all  the  arts,  attract  foreigners  from  the  extremities 
of  Europe,  enrich  the  kingdom,  far  from  impoverishing  it,  and 
inure  to  labor  a  thousand  wretched  idlers." 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA. 

The  King  of  Prussia  had  been  courting  Voltaire  for  four- 
teen years,  and  the  long  courtship,  as  is  usual,  had  destroyed 
some  illusions.  If  Frederic  still  loved  the  poet,  he  had  per- 
mitted himself  to  apply  to  the  man  the  word  fou,  as  a  lover, 
in  a  moment  of  irritation,  calls  his  sweetheart  a  little  fool. 
But  he  desired  to  possess  him  not  the  less.  He  longed  for 
him.  He  said  to  him  once  that  he  would  have  given  him  a 
province  rather  than  not  had  him.  Death,  in  1749,  had  re- 
moved the  king's  only  rival,  and  taken  away  Voltaire's  con- 
stant excuse  for  not  going  to  him.  He  renewed  and  intensi- 
fied his  solicitations,  but  saw  the  bereaved  poet  arrange  himself 
for  an  independent  existence  in  Paris. 

Why  did  this  German  king  want  this  Frencli  author  ?  It 
is  Voltaire  himself,  I  think,  who  suggests  the  controlling  rea- 
son. Lord  Lyttleton,  in  his  "  dialogues  of  the  Dead,"  as- 
signs to  Pope  these  words  :  "  When  the  King  of  Prussia  drew 
Voltaire  from  Paris  to  Berlin,  he  had  a  whole  Academy  of 
belles-lettres  in  him  alone."  That  was  true,  but  probably  not 
the  true  reason.  Voltaire  was  the  most  agreeable  of  living 
men  to  men  of  intellectual  tastes  ;  and  a  king  who  is  not 
enough  man  to  enjoy  the  society  of  women  must  solace  him- 
self as  best  he  can  with  amusing  men.  But  this  frugal  and 
able  monarch  would  not  have  given  a  province  even  for  the 
best  story-teller  in  Europe.  Frederic,  then  enjoying  peace, 
leisure,  and  "  glory,"  had  again  become  an  industrious  author, 
as  the  thirty  volumes  of  his  works  attest.  He  was  writing 
in  prose  the  history  of  his  house  and  of  his  own  campaigns, 
and  he  was  adding  frequently  to  his  stock  of  French  verses, 
of  which  the  authorized  edition  of  his  writings  contains  about 
forty  thousand. 

"He  was  very  sure,"  wrote  Voltaire  in  1759,  "  that  botb  his 


598  LIFE    OF   VOLTAIRE. 

verses  and  his  prose  were  much  above  my  prose  and  my  verses, 
as  to  the  substance ;  but  he  believed  that,  as  to  the  form,  I  could, 
in  my  quality  of  Academician,  give  a  certain  turn  to  his  writ- 
mgs. 

These  words  were  not  written  with  benevolent  intention  ; 
but  perhaps  they  suggest  the  truth.  This  great  general  did 
not  appear  to  value  himself  upon  his  victories  ;  but,  keenly 
coveting  the  glory  of  the  poet,  he  may  have  indulged  the  hope 
of  one  day  enjoying  it.  And,  indeed,  the  wonder  is  that  a 
man  who  wrote  so  many  pretty  good  pieces  and  some  very 
good  lines  should  not  have  occasionally  risen  to  the  degree  of 
excellence  which  the  world  accepts.  He  wrote  a  fable  or  two, 
which  appear  to  need  only  a  touch  from  the  hand  of  a  Lafon- 
taine  to  be  good  French  fables.  He  wrote  a  few  epigrams, 
odes,  and  epistles,  which  seem  to  want  nothing  but  a  certain 
tournure  from  the  pen  of  Voltaire,  to  be  all  that  the  author 
■wished  them  to  be. 

Frederic  had  just  given  a  new  proof  of  the  excessive  value 
which  he  put  upon  the  verse-making  talent.  Among  the  great 
number  of  young  men  whose  dawning  promise  Voltaire  had 
nourished  and  encouraged  was  Baculard  d'Arnaud,  who  had 
written  three  tragedies  (one  upon  the  massacre  of  St.  Barthol- 
omew), neither  of  which  was  ever  produced,  and  only  one  was 
printed.  For  many  years  he  had  been  a  needy  hanger-on  of 
literature.  Several  of  Voltaire's  letters  to  his  man  of  busi- 
ness, the  Abb^  -Moussinot,  end  with  a  request  in  his  favor: 
"  One  more  louis  d'or  to  Baculard  d'Arnaud  ;  "  "•  Instead  of 
twenty-four  francs,  give  D'Arnaud  thirty  livres,  when  he 
comes."  Voltaire,  at  length,  procured  him  the  appointment 
of  Paris  letter-writer  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  which  raised  him 
from  a  condition  approaching  beggary  to  one  of  tolerable  ease, 
the  salary  being  a  thousand  francs  a  year.  D'Arnaud,  in  the 
•fashion  of  the  time,  mingled  verse  with  his  items  of  literary 
and  philosophical  news.  He,  too,  could  compose  very  pretty 
and  graceful  verses,  which  gave  the  king,  as  they  had  once 
given  Voltaire,  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  his  abilities.  In 
1750,  Frederic,  as  if  despairing  of  Voltaire,  invited  D'Arnaud 
to  Berlin,  and  settled  upon  him  a  pension  of  five  thousand 
francs  per  annum.  He  completed  the  bewilderment  of  the 
young  man  by  addressing  him  a  poetical  epistle,  in  which  Vol- 


SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA.  £99 

taire  was  spoken  of  as  the  setting  sun  of  French  literature,  and 
Baculard  d'Arnaud  as  the  rising  kiminary  of  the  same. 

"  Deja  I'Apollon  de  la  France 
S'achemine  a  sa  decadence  ; 
Venez  briller  a  votre  tour, 
Elevez-vous  s'il  baisse  encore  ; 
Ainsi  le  couchant  d'un  beau  jour 
Promet  une  plus  belle  aurore." 

D'Arnaud,  in  the  spring  of  1750,  took  up  his  abode  in  Ber- 
lin, where,  from  being  a  Paris  nobody,  he  found  himself  in  a 
position  to  show  these  verses  in  the  most  distinguished  draw- 
ing-rooms of  the  kingdom,  with  his  own  verses  in  reply,  mod- 
estly declining  the  royal  compliment.  An  edition  of  his  poems 
at  once  appeared,  dedicated  to  the  king,  and  preceded  by  an 
epistle  to  Voltaire,  in  which  the  young  poet  spoke  of  him  as 

"  Mon  maitre,  men  ami,  mon  pere  dans  les  arts." 

The  suddenness  and  splendor  of  his  fortune  were,  it  must  be 
confessed,  a  severe  trial  of  the  good  sense  of  a  gazetteer  of 
Paris,  thirty-two  years  of  age. 

Frederic,  meanwhile,  held  Voltaire  to  his  engagement,  which 
was  to  pass  part  of  the  summer  of  1750  at  Potsdam  and  Ber- 
lin, on  his  way  to  Italy.  Voltaire  meant  to  concede  no  more, 
and  hesitated  to  concede  even  so  much.  His  better  instinct 
warned  him  not  to  venture  again  within  the  personal  influence 
of  a  king  who,  as  he  often  said,  could  caress  with  one  hand 
and  scratch  with  the  other.  But  he  had  made  too  many  prom- 
ises to  be  able  to  refuse  without  giving  just  offense  to  the  most 
sliining  personage  of  the  time,  whose  protection  both  himself 
and  his  philosophic  allies  might  one  day  need.  He  had  already 
been  attacked  in  the  citadel  of  his  position  by  the  resuscita- 
tion of  Cr{;billon.  The  rasping,  satirical  Fr^ron,  whom  Vol- 
taire sweetly  named  "  a  worm  from  Desfontaines's  carcass," 
had  begun  his  editorial  career  of  defaming  the  good  and  ex- 
alting the  bad.  For  many  a  year  to  come,  he  was  to  earn  the 
good-will  of  the  Boyer  faction  by  assailing,  with  equal  tact 
and  pertinacity,  Voltaire,  Marmontel,  Diderot,  and  their 
friends.  The  Boyers,  full  of  blind  confidence,  were  just  be- 
ginning that  last,  long,  besotted  struggle  to  crush  the  intellect 
of  France,  which  only  ended  with  the  explosion  that  scattered 
them  to  the  ends  of  Europe.     They  had  begun  to  refuse  the 


600  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

sacraments  to  dying  Jansenists  who  could  not  show  a  billet  de 
confession,  a  certificate  declaring  that  they  had  accepted  the 
Bull  Unigenitus.  Diderot  had  already  been  in  prison,  and 
all  things  in  F'rance  wore  an  ill  aspect  for  the  little  band  of 
audacious,  half-enlightened  spirits  who  were  to  begin  to  save 
her. 

The  King  of  Prussia  continued  his  importunities.  "  You 
are  like  bad  Christians,"  he  wrote  :  "  you  put  off  your  conver- 
sion from  one  day  to  another."  Again  :  "  Come,  at  least,  to 
correct  my  eulogium  of  our  officers  killed  in  the  last  w-ar,  a 
poem  full  of  faults,  in  which  I  take  more  interest  than  in  all 
my  other  works."  D'Arnaud,  too,  wrote  to  "  my  dear  Apollo," 
informing  him  that  he  was  expected  with  the  greatest  impa- 
tience in  Prussia,  and  that  the  king  would  make  a  festival 
of  his  coming.  Apollo  may  have  deemed  the  letter  of  the 
lucky  Baculard  a  little  familiar,  but  he  replied  to  it  with  his 
usual  gayety. 

According  to  Marmontel,  it  was  this  Baculard  d'Arnaud 
who  was  the  occasion  of  Voltaire's  suddenly  conquering  his 
reluctance  to  set  out.  The  vivacious  Marmontel,  writing  forty 
years  after  the  eveut,  may  have  unconsciously  heightened  the 
comic  effects  of  the  scenes  which  he  relates,  as  he  certainly 
misunderstood  some  of  his  facts.  He  tells  us  that  Voltaire, 
unwilling  to  travel  without  Madame  Denis,  asked  the  king  to 
give  him  twenty  thousand  francs  to  defray  the  additional  ex- 
pense. The  king,  according  to  Marmontel,  refused  this  mod- 
est demand,  which  transported  Voltaire  with  fury.  "  Look," 
said  he  to  me,  "  at  this  meanness  in  a  king !  He  has  barrels 
of  gold,  and  he  won't  give  a  poor  twenty  thousand  francs  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  Madame  Denis  at  Berlin  !  But  he  shall 
give  them,  or  I  myself  will  not  go."  The  celebrated  scenes  in 
Marmontel's  Memoirs  which  follow  this  anecdote  are  a  curi- 
ous example  of  the  manner  in  which  falsehood  inevitably  gath- 
ers about  a  famous  name.     Marmontel  continues  :  — 

"A  comical  incirleut  happened,  which  ended  this  dispute.  Oue 
morning,  as  I  was  going  to  see  him,  I  found  his  friend,  Thieriot,  in 
the  garden  of  the  Palais-Royal,  and,  as  I  was  always  on  the  watch  for 
literary  news,  I  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  any-  '  Yes,'  said  he,  '  some 
that  is  very  curious  ;  you  are  going  to  M.  de  Voltaire's,  and  there  you 
shall  hear  it ;  for  I  shall  go  there  as  soon  as  I  have  taken  my  coffee.' 


SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA.  601 

"  Voltaire  was  writing  in  his  bed  when  I  went  in.  In  his  turn,  he 
asked  me,  '  What 's  the  news  ? ' 

"'I  know  none,'  said  I ;  '  but  Thieriot,  whom  I  met  in  the  Palais- 
Royal,  says  he  has  something  very  interesting  to  tell  you.  He  is 
coming.' 

"  '  Well,  Thieriot,'  said  he,  '  you  have  some  curious  news  ? ' 

"  '  Oh !  very  curious  ;  and  news  that  will  please  you  in  particular,' 
answered  Thieriot,  with  his  sardonic  laugh,  and  the  nasal  twang  of  a 
Capuchin. 

"'  Let 's  hear  ;  what  have  you  to  tell  ?' 

" '  I  have  to  tell  you  that  Baculard  d'Arnaud  has  arrived  at  Pots- 
dam, and  that  the  King  of  Prussia  has  received  him  with  open  arms.' 

" '  With  open  arms  ! ' 

"  <  And  Arnaud  has  presented  him  with  an  epistle.' 

"  '  Very  bombastical  and  very  insipid  ?  ' 

" '  Not  at  all ;  very  fine,  —  so  fine  that  the  king  has  answered  it  by 
another  epistle.' 

"  *  The  King  of  Prussia,  an  epistle  to  Arnaud  !  No,  no,  Thieriot ; 
they  have  been  poking  fun  at  you.' 

" '  I  don't  know  what  you  call  fun ;  but  I  have  the  two  epistles  in 
my  pocket.' 

" '  Let 's  see,  quick.  Let  me  read  these  masterpieces  of  poetry. 
What  insipidity  !  what  meanness  !  how  egregiously  stupid  ! '  said  he, 
in  reading  the  epistle  of  D'Arnaud.  Then,  passing  to  that  of  the  king, 
he  read  a  moment  in  silence  and  with  an  air  of  pity.  But  when  he 
came  to  these  verses,  — 

'  Voltaire  's  a  setting  sun, 
But  you  are  in  your  dawn,' 

he  started  up,  and  jumped  from  his  bed,  bounding  with  rage:  'Vol- 
taire a  setting  sun,  and  Baculard  in  his  dawn  !  And  it  is  a  king  who 
writes  this  enormous  folly  !     Let  him  think  only  of  reigning  ! ' 

"  It  was  with  difficulty  that  Thieriot  and  I  could  prevent  ourselves 
from  bursting  into  laughter  to  see  Voltaire  in  his  shirt,  dancing  with 
passion,  and  addressing  himself  to  the  King  of  Prussia.  '  I  'II  go,'  said 
he  ;  '  yes,  I  '11  go,  and  teach  him  to  distinguish  between  men ; '  and 
from  that  moment  the  journey  was  decided  upon. 

"  I  have  suspected  that  the  King  of  Prussia  intentionally  gave  him 
this  spur,  and  without  that  I  doubt  whether  he  would  have  gone,  so 
angry  was  he  at  the  refusal  of  the  twenty  thousand  francs ;  not  at  all 
from  avarice,  but  from  indignation  at  not  having  obtained  what  he 
asked. 

"  Obstinate  to  excess  by  character  and  by  system,  he  had,  even  in 
little  things,  an  incredible  repugnance  to  yield,  and  to  renounce  what 
he  had  resolved  on." 


602  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

It  seems  a  pity  to  spoil  so  amusing  a  story,  and  one  which 
has  passed  current  so  long.  But  we  perceive  from  the  letters 
of  Voltaire,  D'Arnaud,  and  the  king  that  Marmontel's  forty 
years  had  deceived  him.  Voltaii'e  was  cognizant  of  all  the 
movements  of  the  young  poet ;  congratulated  him  on  his  good 
fortune  at  eveiy  stage  of  it ;  congratulated  the  king  upon  get- 
ting him  ;  busied  himself  with  procuring  for  the  king  another 
Paris  correspondent ;  and  alluded,  in  exquisite  verse,  to  the 
king's  sorry  comparison  of  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun.  He 
certainly  did  feel  all  the  indecency  of  that  comparison,  and 
doubtless  showed  that  he  did  in  Marmontel's  presence.  It 
did  not  diminish  his  sense  of  its  unworthiness  when  he  found 
the  verses  circulating  everywhere  in  Paris :  — 

"  Je  touche  a  mes  soixante  hiversj 
Mais  si  tant  de  lauriers  divers 
Ombragent  votve  jeime  tete, 
Grand  homme,  est-il  done  bien  honnete 
De  depouiller  mes  cheveux  blancs 
De  quelques  feuilles  negligees, 
Que  deja  I'Envie  et  le  Temps 
Ont,  de  lenrs  detestables  dents, 
Sur  ma  tete  a  demi  ronge'es?  "^ 

Falling  into  a  lighter  strain,  he  says  to  Frederic,  "  What  a 
devil  of  a  Marcus  Antoninus  you  are,  to  scratch  so  with  one 
hand,  while  you  protect  with  the  other! " 

With  regard  to  Madame  Denis  and  the  twenty  thousand 
francs,  Marmontel's  memory  deceived  him  completely.  That 
lady  was  to  remain  at  Paris  in  charge  of  her  uncle's  house, 
assisted  in  out-of-door  business  and  otherwise  by  Longchamp. 
There  was  never  the  least  suggestion  of  her  going  to  Berlin 
until  after  Voltaire's  arrival  there,  when  the  king,  out  of  tiie 
abundance  of  his  barrels  of  gold,  offered  her  a  pension  for  life 
of  four  thousand  francs  a  year,  if  she  would  come  to  Berlin 
and  keep  her  uncle's  house.  There  was,  it  is  true,  a  moment- 
ary difficulty  with  regard  to  money.  May  8,  1750,  Voltaire, 
writing  to  the  king  upon  the  obstacles  to  his  leaving  and  the 
little  pleasure  he  felt  able  to  bestow  on  his  arrival,  proceeded 
thus : — 

^  I  approach  my  sixtieth  winter;  but  if  so  many  kinds  of  laurel  shade  your 
young  head,  great  man,  is  it  then  quite  worthy  of  you  to  despoil  ray  white  hairs  of 
some  neglected  leaves,  which  already  Envy  and  Time  have,  with  their  detestable 
teeth,  half  gnawed  upon  my  head  ? 


1 


SETTLING  m  PRUSSIA.  603 

"  There  is  still  one  other  difficulty.  I  am  going  now  to  speak,  not 
at  all  to  the  king,  but  to  the  man  who  enters  into  the  detail  of  human 
miseries.  I  am  rich,  and  even  very  rich,  for  a  man  of  letters.  I 
have,  as  they  say  in  Paris,  '  mounted  a  house,'  where  I  live  like  a  phi- 
losopher, with  my  family  and  my  friends.  Such  is  my  situation.  Yet 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  incur  at  present  an  extraordijiary  expendi- 
ture ;  first,  because  it  has  cost  me  a  great  deal  to  set  up  my  little  es- 
tablishment :  in  the  second  place,  the  affairs  of  Madame  du  Chatelet, 
mixed  with  my  own,  have  cost  me  still  more.  I  pray  you,  according 
to  your  philosophic  custom,  put  majesty  aside,  and  allow  me  to  say 
that  I  am  not  willing  to  be  an  expense  to  you.  I  cannot  have  a  good 
traveling  carriage,  and  set  out  with  the  help  necessary  to  a  sick  man, 
and  provide  for  the  expenses  of  my  house  during  my  absence,  with 
less  than  four  thousand  German  crowns.  If  Mettra,  one  of  the  ex- 
change dealers  of  Berlin,  is  willing  to  advance  me  that  sum,  I  will 
secure  him  upon  that  part  of  my  property  which  is  the  most  unques- 
tionable." 

The  king  replied  to  tins  letter  in  forty  of  his  sprightliest 
verses ;  but  added  to  his  merry  lines  a  few  sentences  in  prose  : 
"As  the  Sieur  Mettra  might  object  to  a  letter  of  exchange  in 
verse,  I  cause  to  be  sent  to  you  one  in  proper  form  by  his  cor- 
respondent, which  will  be  of  more  value  than  my  jingle." 

The  letter  of  exchange,  which  was  for  sixteen  thousand 
francs,  arrived  in  due  time.  There  was  never  any  question 
between  them  with  regard  to  money.  The  king,  generally  so 
frugal  and  exact  in  business,  as  able  men  are,  was  profuse  to- 
wards him,  and  pressed  money  upon  him. 

Another  of  Marmontel's  anecdotes  of  this  period  is  equally 
entertaining,  and  may  be  accepted  us  founded  upon  fact.  It 
belongs  to  the  class  of  stories  which,  being  often  told,  gain  a 
little  in  point,  and  lose  a  little  in  truth,  every  year ;  until, 
after  the  lapse  of  forty  years,  they  must  be  taken  with  liberal 
allowance  :  — 

"  I  again  saw  a  singular  instance  of  this  obstinacy  of  Voltaire's, 
just  before  his  departure  to  Prussia.  He  had  taken  a  fancy  to  carry 
a  cutlass  with  him  on  his  journey,  and,  one  morning,  when  I  was  at 
his  house,  a  bundle  of  them  was  brought,  that  he  might  choose  one. 
But  the  cutler  wanted  twenty  francs  for  the  one  that  pleased  him,  and 
Voltaire  took  it  into  his  head  that  he  would  give  but  fifteen.  He 
then  begins  to  calculate  in  detail  what  it  may  be  worth.  He  adds 
that  the  cutler  bears  in  his  face  the  character  of  an  honest  man,  and 


604  LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 

that,  with  such  ffood  faith  written  on  his  forehead,  he  cannot  but  con- 
fess  that  the  instrument  will  be  well  paid  for  at  fifteen  francs.  The 
cutler  accepts  the  eulogy  on  his  face,  but  answers  that,  as  an  honest 
man,  he  has  but  one  word ;  that  he  asks  no  more  than  the  thing  is 
worth ;  and  that,  were  he  to  sell  it  at  a  lower  price,  he  should  wrong 
his  children. 

"  '  What !  you  have  children,  have  you  ?  '  asked  Voltaire. 

" '  Yes,  sir,  I  have  five,  three  boys  and  two  girls,  the  youngest  of 
whom  is  just  twelve.' 

"  '  Well,  we  '11  think  about  placing  your  boys  and  marrying  your 
girls.  I  have  friends  in  the  treasury  ;  I  have  some  credit  in  the  pub- 
lic offices.  But  let 's  finish  this  little  affair :  here  are  your  fifteen 
francs  ;  say  no  more  about  it.' 

"  The  good  cutler  was  confused  in  thanking  Voltaire  for  the  protec- 
tion with  which  he  was  pleased  to  honor  him ;  but  he  still  kept  to  his 
first  word  about  the  price  of  the  cutlass,  and  did  not  abate  one  sou.  I 
abridge  this  scene,  which  lasted  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  by  the  turns  of 
eloquence  and  seduction  that  Voltaire  employed  in  vain,  not  to  save 
five  francs,  —  that  he  would  have  given  to  a  beggar,  —  but  to  prevail 
by  the  power  of  persuasion.  He  was  obliged  to  yield,  and,  with  a 
troubled,  indignant,  embarrassed  air,  threw  upon  the  table  the  five- 
franc  piece  that  he  relinquished  so  unwillingly.  The  cutler,  when  he 
had  got  his  money,  returned  him  thanks  for  his  favors,  and  went 
away. 

"  '  I  am  very  glad,'  said  I,  in  a  low  voice,  as  I  saw  him  go  out. 

"  '  Of  what  ?  '  asked  Voltaire  angrily.     '  What  are  you  glad  of?' 

" '  That  this  honest  man's  family  is  no  longer  to  be  pitied.  His 
sons  will  soon  be  placed;  his  daughtei-s  married  ;  and  he,  in  the  mean 
time,  has  sold  his  cutlass  for  what  he  wanted,  and  you  have  paid  it,  in 
spite  of  all  your  eloquence.' 

"  '  And  this  is  what  you  are  glad  of,  you  obstinate  Liraosin  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  yes  ;  I  am  quite  pleased  ;  if  he  had  yielded  to  you,  I  be- 
lieve I  should  have  beaten  him.' 

"  '  Do  you  know,'  said  he,  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  '  that  if  Moliere  had  been  witness  to  such  a  scene  he  would 
have  turned  it  to  some  profit  ? ' 

"  '  Indeed,'  said  I,  '  it  would  have  been  the  counterpart  to  that  of 
M.  Dimanche.' 

"  It  was  thus  that  with  me  his  anger,  or  rather  his  petulance,  al- 
ways terminated  in  gentleness  and  friendship." 

Only  one  formality  remained  to  be  complied  with.  "  I  have 
the  honor,"  Voltaire  would  sometimes  say,  when  his  conven- 


SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA.  605 

ience  required  it,  "  to  be  a  domestique  du  roi.^^  A  gentlemaii- 
in-ordin;iry  of  the  cliamber,  who  was  also  the  king's  histori- 
ographer, could  not  leave  the  kingdom  without  the  king's  per- 
mission, and  he  resolved  to  ask  it  in  person.  On  two  occasions 
he  had  been  charged  with  public  business  of  high  importance, 
on  leavinfr  France  for  a  visit  to  the  Prussian  court.  He  went 
to  Compiegne,  where  the  King  of  France  was,  and,  seeking  an 
audience,  asked  the  required  permission  and  the  king's  orders. 
The  tiadition  is  that  he  was  coldly  received.  Longchamp  re- 
lates that  the  king  merely  said,  "  You  can  set  out  when  you 
wish,"  and  turned  his  back.  Madame  de  Pompadour  was 
more  gracious.  "When  I  took  leave  of  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour," he  wrote  to  his  niece,  "  she  charged  me  to  present  her 
respects  to  the  King  of  Prussia.  A  commission  could  not  be 
given  more  agreeably  or  with  more  grace.  She  put  into  it  all 
her  modesty,  saying,  If  I  dared,  and,  I  asic  pardon  of  the  King 
of  Prussia  for  talcing  this  liberty.'''' 

Returning  to  Paris,  he  gave  his  last  orders  to  Longchamp, 
who  was  to  receive  part  of  his  revenues  during  his  absence, 
and  furnish  Madame  Denis  with  one  hundred  louis  a  month 
for  household  expenses.  If  that  allowance  should  be  found 
insufficient,  Longchamp  was  to  inform  him  of  the  fact,  when 
he  would  authorize  him  to  provide  "a  reasonable  addition." 
He  expected  to  be  absent  three  or  four  months  at  most.  To 
the  last  hour  he  seems  to  have  had  misgivings ;  he  implored 
the  D'Argentals  to  pardon  his  journey,  however  severely  they 
might  judge  his  new  tragedies,  which  he  was  still  correcting. 
This  visit  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  he  said  to  his  friends,  had 
become  a  duty  which,  after  two  years  of  promises,  he  could  no 
longer  honorably  postpone. 

He  left  to  the  Boyers  of  France  last  proofs  of  his  affection 
in  the  form  of  two  little  tracts  of  amusing  satire :  one  called 
"  Sincere  Thanksgiving  to  a  Charitable  JNIan,"  in  which  he 
reviewed  a  priestly  reviler  of  Montesquieu,  Pope,  and  Locke. 
The  zealous  priest  had  laboriously  attempted  to  prove  that 
"  the  partisans  of  natural  religion  "  are  all  enemies  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion.  Voltaire  congratulated  him  upon  his  success  in 
proving  that  the  men  in  every  age  and  land  who  had  shown 
the  most  love  of  truth  and  the  greatest  diligence  in  its  inves- 
tigation  had    been    hostile    to    the   claims   of    ecclesiastics. 


606  LIFE   OF    VOLTAIRE. 

"  NotliinsT  could  be  said  more  sensible  or  more  useful  to 
Christianity."  The  other  pat  at  parting  was  a  leaf  entitled 
"  Extract  from  a  Decree  of  the  Sacred  Congregation  of  Rome 
upon  a  Libel  called  Letters  upon  the  Twentieth."  This 
was  a  broad  burlesque  of  the  claim  of  the  clergy  to  be  exempt 
from  taxation.  He  little  thought  that  he  was  exiling  himself 
from  his  native  haunts  for  twenty-eight  years  by  these  merry 
effusions. 

"  As  it  is  clear  that  the  world  is  about  to  come  to  an  end,  and  that 
Anti-Christ  has  come  already,  the  said  Anti-Christ  having  sent  sev- 
eral circular  letters  to  some  of  the  bishops  of  France,  in  which  he 
has  had  the  audacity  to  treat  them  as  Frenchmen  and  as  subjects  of 
the  king,  Satan  has  joined  himself  to  the  Man  of  Iniquity,  in  order 
to  put  the  abomination  of  desolation  into  the  holy  place ;  which  Satan 
has,  to  that  end,  composed  a  book  worthy  of  him, —  a  book  heretical, 
savoring  of  heresy,  rash,  and  unseemly.  He  strives  to  prove  in  the 
said  book  that  ecclesiastics  form  part  of  the  body  of  the  nation,  in- 
stead of  maintaining  that  they  are  substantially  its  masters,  as  they 
formerly  taught.  He  advances  that  those  who  enjoy  one  third  of 
the  revenues  of  the  state  should  contribute  at  least  one  third  to  the 
state's  support;  not  remembering  that  our  brethren  were  created  to 
possess  all  and  give  nothing.  The  said  book,  moreover,  is  notoriously 
filled  with  impious  maxims  drawn  from  natural  law,  the  rights  of 
the  people,  the  fundamental  laws  of  the  kingdom,  and  other  perni- 
cious prejudices,  tending  wickedly  to  strengthen  the  royal  authority,  to 
cause  more  money  to  circulate  in  the  kingdom  of  France,  to  relieve 
p^or  ecclesiastics  now  holily  oppressed  by  rich  ones. 

"  For  these  reasons,  it  has  seemed  good  to  the  Holy  Spirit  and  to 
us  to  cause  the  said  book  to  be  burned,  in  anticipation  of  doing  the 
same  to  the  author  of  it,  who  served  in  this  matter  as  the  secretary  of 
Satan.  "We  demand,  moreover,  and  command  that  our  first-fruits  be 
punctually  paid.  We  condemn  Satan  to  drink  holy  water  at  supper 
every  Friday,  and  we  enjoin  it  upon  him  to  enter  into  the  body  of  all 
those  who  have  read  his  book.  Done  at  Rome,  in  Sainte-Marie  sans 
Minerve,  at  twenty-five  o'clock.  May  20,  1750. 

"  Signed,  Coglione-Coglionaccio,  Cardinal-President,  and,  lower, 
Cazzo-Culo,  Secretary  of  the  Holy  Office." 

This  was  his  parting  word  to  the  keeper  of  the  Dauphin's 
conscience  and  the  bestower  of  the  church's  fat  things.  It 
was  not  forgotten. 

Berlin  is  now  twenty  hours  from  Paris.     Voltaire,  who  had 


SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA.  607 

a  kino"  to  order  relays  of  horses  for  liis  convenience,  accom- 
plished the  journey  in  twenty-five  days  ;  but  then  he  lost  sev- 
eral days  through  a  mistake.  That  precious  time,  he  wrote, 
which  ought  to  have  been  employed  in  rendering  "  Rome  Sau- 
v^e  "  less  unworthy  of  the  theatre,  he  wasted  in  giving  himself 
a  series  of  indigestions.  He  left  Paris  June  15,  1750.  July 
10th  he  reached  Sans-Souci,  near  Potsdam,  the  country  palace 
of  the  King  of  Prussia,  seventeen  miles  southwest  of  Berlin. 

What  a  reception  was  his  !  From  a  king  who  told  him  he 
was  welcome  to  go,  he  had  come  to  a  king  who  practiced  every 
seductive  art  to  make  him  willing  to  remain.  The  suite  of 
rooms  assigned  him  in  the  palace  was  the  one  formerly  oc- 
cupied by  Marshal  Saxe.  He  was  left  at  absolute  liberty. 
If  he  wished  to  dine  alone,  he  had  but  to  indicate  the  wish. 
If  he  desired  to  entertain  company,  the  king's  kitchen  and 
store-room  were  at  his  command.  The  king's  horses,  carriages, 
grooms,  coachmen,  all  were  at  his  orders,  to  use,  to  send,  to 
lend.  If  he  was  disposed  to  labor,  no  one  interrupted  him  ; 
if  he  strolled  abroad,  his  privacy  was  respected.  The  whole 
court  smiles  upon  the  king's  favorite.  The  queen,  the  queen- 
mother,  the  princesses,  the  princes,  the  ambassadors,  the 
nobles,  all  the  king's  circle  of  officers  and  friends,  paid  assid- 
uous court  to  him ;  and  the  people  of  Berlin,  who  looked 
towai'ds  the  court  from  a  great  imaginary  distance,  regarded 
him  with  intense  curiosity. 

At  the  moment  of  his  arrival  preparations  were  going  for- 
ward for  a  grand  carousal  in  the  style  of  Louis  XIV.,  to 
which  the  nobility  of  the  kingdom  were  invited.  This  mag- 
nificent festival,  which  took  place  at  Berlin,  in  August,  1750, 
was  an  assemblage  of  everything  Prussia  could  boast  of  the 
splendid  and  the  entertaining.  Balls,  fire-works,  concerts,  op- 
eras, plays,  succeeded  one  another.  The  court-yard  of  the 
royal  palace  was  turned  into  an  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by 
ranges  of  seats,  one  above  another,  with  decorated  boxes  in  the 
rear  for  the  king  and  chosen  guests,  and,  in  the  midst,  an  ex- 
tensive, oblong  arena  for  the  exercises.  Three  thousand 
troops  lined  this  arena,  and  guarded  the  avenues  leading  to  it. 
Thousands  of  spectators  were  present.  When  all  was  in  read- 
iness, and  every  eye  was  directed  toward  the  royal  box  to 
catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  king,  a  buzz  and  murmur  were 


608  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

heard  in  all  parts  of  the  inclosure:  "  Voltaire!  Voltaire!  Vol- 
taire! "  He  was  seen  crossing  the  arena,  attended  by  a  num- 
ber of  lords,  and  walking  toward  one  of  the  boxes.  Soon  the 
king  and  his  family  entered,  and  the  performance  began. 
Four  quadrilles,  or,  as  Voltaire  styled  them,  "  four  little  ar- 
mies," entered,  of  mounted  knights,  Roman,  Carthaginian, 
Greek,  Persian,  all  superbly  costumed  and  armed,  with  a 
prince  of  the  royal  house  at  the  head  of  each.  One  of  these 
quadrilles  came  in  at  each  corner  of  the  amphitheatre ;  in  a 
moment,  the  great  arena  was  one  glitter  of  prancing  horses 
and  gorgeous  chevaliers,  marching  and  counter-marchmg, 
wheeling  and  manoeuvring,  to  the  sound  of  the  best  martial 
music  then  attainable.  The  usual  exercises  of  the  tourney  fol- 
lowed. 

Voltaire  could  not  resist  the  fascination  of  the  spectacle. 
"Not  the  least  confusion,"  he  wrote  home  to  D'Argental ;  "  no 
noise ;  all  the  assembly  seated  at  ease,  and  silently  attentive." 
.  .  .  .  The  Princess  Amelia  gave  the  prizes  to  the  victors.  "It 
was  Venus  awarding  the  apple.  The  Prince  Royal  won  the 
first  prize.  He  had  the  air  of  a  hero  of  Amadis.  You  can  form 
no  just  idea  of  the  beauty,  the  singularity,  of  the  spectacle  ;  the 
whole  terminated  by  a  supper  of  ten  tables  and  a  ball.  This 
is  fairy-land."  It  was,  at  once,  a  carousal  of  Louis  XIV.  and 
a  Chinese  feast  of  lanterns ;  for  the  amphitheatre  and  its  ap- 
proaches were  illuminated  by  forty-six  thousand  small  lanterns 
of  glass. 

The  Princess  Amelia  was  not  ill-pleased  to  receive  an  "  im- 
promptu "  from  the  poet,  penciled,  as  she  could  presume,  at 
the  moment  of  her  bestowal  of  the  prize :  — 

"Jamais  dans  Athene  et  dans  Rome, 
On  n'eut  de  plus  beaux  jours,  ui  de  plus  digne  prix. 
J'ai  vu  le  fils  de  Mars  sous  les  traits  de  Paris, 
Et  Venus  qui  donnait  la  pomme."  . 

The  master  and  creator  of  all  this  magnificence  redoubled 
his  solicitations.  He  was  a  little  rough  on  one  occasion,  which 
might  have  warned  a  Frenchman  that  he  was  in  a  country 
that  could  buy  French  polish,  but  could  never  be  France.  Im- 
agine this  colloquy  on  Voltaire's  arrival  at  Potsdam:  — 

Voltaire.  —  "  Madame  de  Pompadour  did  me  the  honor  to 
charge  me  with  her  respects  to  your  majesty." 


SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA.  609 

Frederic.  —  "I  don't  know  her." 

It  was  blunt.  Voltaire  did  not  report  the  response  to  the 
lady.  He  was  polite  for  two.  In  a  few  pretty  verses,  he  con- 
trived, without  falsehood,  to  inform  her  that  her  compliments 
had  reached  the  person  for  whom  they  were  intended.  Her 
myrtles,  he  added,  were  now  blended  with  his  laurels. 
Then,  — 

"  J'ai  I'honneur,  de  la  part  d'Achille, 
De  rendre  graces  a  Venus."  ^ 

If  all  Frederic's  familiars  had  been  as  politic,  Prussia  might 
have  had  one  enemy  the  less  in  the  Seven  Years'  War. 

Voltaire  did  not  yield  to  the  king's  solicitations  without  a 
struggle.  He  consulted  his  niece,  Madame  Denis,  upon  the 
change  of  residence  proposed  for  them  both.  August  14th,  he 
wrote  to  her  thus :  — 

"  The  Kinir  of  Prussia  makes  me  his  chamberlain,  gives  me  one  of 
his  orders,  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  to  you  four  thousand  a 
year  for  life,  if  you  are  willing  to  come  and  keep  house  for  me  at 
Berlin,  as  you  do  at  Paris.  You  lived  well  at  Landau  with  your  hus- 
band. I  swear  to  you  that  Berlin  is  a  better  place  than  Landau,  and 
that  there  are  better  operas  here.  Reflect ;  consult  your  heart.  You 
will  tell  me  that  the  King  of  Prussia  must  be  very  fond  of  verses.  He 
is,  indeed,  a  French  author  born  at  Berlin.  He  has  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that,  all  things  considered,  I  should  be  more  useful  to  him  than 
D'Arnaud.  I  have  forgiven  the  trifling  polite  verses  which  his  Prus- 
sian majesty  addressed  to  my  young  pupil,  in  which  he  spoke  of  him 
as  the  rising  sun,  very  brilliant,  and  of  me  as  the  setting  sun,  dim  enough. 
He  scratches  still,  sometimes,  with  one  hand,  while  he  caresses  with  the 
other  ;  but  we  must  not  mind  that  so  much.  If  you  consent,  he  will 
have  near  him  both  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun,  and,  for  his  own 
part,  he  will  be  in  his  meridian,  writing  prose  and  verse  as  much  as  h(3 
pleases,  since  he  has  no  more  battles  to  give.  I  have  little  time  to  live. 
Perhaps  it  is  pleasanter  to  die  in  his  fashion  at  Potsdam  than  in  the 
manner  of  an  inhabitant  of  a  parish  at  Paris.  After  my  death  you  will 
return  thither,  with  your  four  thousand  livres  of  dowry.  If  these  prop- 
ositions suit  you,  you  will  pack  up  your  effects  in  the  spring  ;  and,  for 
me,  I  shall  go,  toward  the  end  of  this  autumn,  on  pilgrimage  to  Italy, 
to  see  St.  Peter's  of  Rome,  the  Pope,  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  and  the 
subterranean  city.  I  have  always  mourned  at  the  thought  of  dying 
without  seeing  Italy.     We  should  meet  in  the  month  of  May  next.     I 

1  I  have  the  honor,  on  the  part  of  Achilles,  to  return  thanks  to  Venus. 
VOL.  I.  39 


610  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

have  four  verses  from  the  King  of  Prussia  for  his  Holiness.  It  would 
be  pleasant  to  carry  to  the  Pope  four  French  verses  from  a  German 
and  heretical  monarch,  and  to  bring  back  to  Potsdam  some  indul- 
gences. You  see  that  he  treats  Popes  better  than  he  treats  ladies.  He 
will  compose  no  verses  for  you ;  but  you  will  find  good  company  here  ; 
you  will  have  a  good  house.  The  king  our  master  must  first  consent 
to  this.  That  will  be,  I  think,  very  indifferent  to  him.  It  matters 
little  to  a  King  of  France  in  what  place  the  most  useless  of  his  twenty- 
two  or  twenty-three  millions  of  subjects  passes  his  life  ;  but  it  would  be 
frightful  to  live  without  you." 

Madame  Denis,  a  true  child  of  Paris,  was  proof  against  these 
arguments.  She  wrote  a  reply,  earnestly  dissuading  him.  The 
mere  rank  of  the  king,  ^he  thought,  made  friendship  impossi- 
ble between  them.  Kings,  too,  changed  their  minds  and  their 
favorites.  If  he  gave  himself  to  a  king,  he  would  bitterly  re- 
pent it;  his  life  as  the  servant  of  a  foreign  potentate  could  only 
be  slavery  disguised.  This  letter  he  sent  to  the  king's  cabi- 
net ;  whence  soon  he  received  an  answer,  in  which  Frederic  le 
Grand,  as  Voltaire  now  habitually  called  him,  condescended  to 
refute  Madame  Denis's  reasoning. 

[Berlin,  August  23,  1750.]  "I  have  seen  the  letter  which  your 
niece  writes  you  from  Paris.  The  affection  which  she  has  for  you 
wins  my  esteem.  If  I  were  Madame  Denis,  I  should  think  as  she 
does  ;  but,  being  what  I  am,  I  think  otherwise.  I  should  be  in  despair 
to  be  the  cause  of  my  enemy's  unhappiness  ;  and  how  could  I  wish  the 
misfortune  of  a  man  whom  I  esteem,  whom  I  love,  and  who  sacrifices 
to  me  his  country  and  all  that  is  dearest  to  humanity  ?  No,  my  dear 
Voltaire,  if  I  could  foresee  that  your  removal  hither  could  turn  the 
least  in  the  world  to  your  disadvantage,  I  should  be  the  first  to  dis- 
suade you  from  it.  Yes,  I  should  prefer  your  happiness  to  my  ex- 
treme pleasure  in  possessing  you.  But  you  are  a  philosopher;  I  am 
one  also.  What  is  there  more  natural,  more  simple,  more  according  to 
the  order  of  things,  than  that  philosophers,  made  to  live  together,  united 
by  the  same  studies,  by  the  same  tastes,  and  by  a  similar  way  of  think- 
ing, should  give  one  another  that  satisfaction  ?  I  respect  you  as  my 
master  in  composition  and  in  knowledge  ;  I  love  you  as  a  virtuous  friend. 
What  slavery,  what  unhappiness,  what  change,  what  inconstancy  of 
fortune,  is  there  to  fear  in  a  country  where  you  are  esteemed  as  much 
as  in  your  own,  and  in  the  house  of  a  friend  who  has  a  grateful  heart  ? 
I  have  not  the  foolish  presumption  to  believe  that  Berlin  equals  Paris. 
If  wealth,  grandeur,  and  magnificence  make  a  city  agreeable,  we  yield 


SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA.  611 

to  Paris.  If  good  taste,  perhaps  more  generally  diffused,  exists  any 
where  in  the  world,  I  know  and  I  agree  that  it  is  at  Paris.  But  do 
you  not  carry  that  taste  with  you  wherever  you  are?  "We  have  some 
organs  which  give  us  sufficient  means  of  applauding  you,  and  in  point 
of  sentiments  we  do  not  yield  to  any  country  in  the  world.  I  respected 
the  friendship  which  bound  you  to  Madame  du  Chatelet;  but,  after 
her,  I  was  one  of  your  oldest  friends.  What !  because  you  retire  to 
my  house,  it  will  be  said  that  that  house  becomes  a  prison  for  you  ? 
What !  because  I  am  your  friend,  I  shall  be  your  tyrant  ?  I  confess 
to  you  that  I  do  not  understand  such  logic  as  that,  and  I  am  firmly 
persuaded  that  you  will  be  very  happy  here  ;  that  you  will  be  regarded 
as  the  father  of  letters  and  of  people  of  taste ;  and  that  you  will  find 
in  me  all  the  consolations  which  a  man  of  your  merit  can  expect  from 
one  who  esteems  him.     Good-night."  ^ 

In  conversation  he  was  even  more  affectionate  and  more  ur- 
gent. In  such  circumstances,  the  poet  who  deliberates  is  lost. 
It  is  himself  who  tells  us  how  he  yielded  to  the  royal  seducer : 
"  The  large  blue  eyes  of  the  king,  his  sweet  smile,  and  his 
siren  voice,  his  five  battles,  his  extreme  love  of  retirement  and 
of  occupation,  of  verses  and  of  prose,  as  well  as  attentions  to 
turn  one's  head,  delicious  conversation,  liberty,  bis  rank  for- 
gotten in  our  intercourse,  a  thousand  marks  of  regard,  which 
even  from  a  private  individual  would  be  seducing,  —  all  that 
bewildered  my  brain.  I  gave  myself  to  him  with  passion, 
bhndly,  and  without  reflection."  ^  It  was  hard  indeed  for  such 
a  man  to  say  No  to  such  a  suppliant.  "  He  took  my  hand,"  as 
he  afterwards  recorded,  "  to  kiss  it.  I  kissed  his,  and  made 
myself  his  slave.'" 

As  usual  in  such  cases,  repentance  followed  quick.  No 
sooner  had  he  given  his  word  than  his  heart  yearned  toward 
his  friends  in  Paris :  he  knew  not  what  to  say  to  them  ;  he 
knew  not  how  to  explain  this  inconstancy  of  the  most  con- 
stant of  men.  Writing  to  the  D'Argentals,  August  28th,  he 
begins  without  a  beginning  :  — 

"  Judge,  my  dearest  angels,  if  I  am  not  in  some  degree  excusable. 
Judge  by  the  letter  which  the  king  wrote  to  me  from  his  quarters  to 
mine,  —  a  letter  which  replies  to  the  very  wise,  very  elegant,  very  pow- 
erful reasons  that  my  niece  adduces  upon  a  mere  presentimc-nt.  I 
send  her  that  letter  ;  let  her  show  it  to  you,  I  beg,  and  you  will  think 

1  22  CEuvres  de  Frederic  le  Grand,  255. 

2  Vohaire  to  Richelieu.     August  31,  1751. 


612  LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 

you  are  reading  a  letter  of  Trajan  or  Marcus  Aurelius.  Not  the  less 
is  my  heart  torn.  I  yield  to  my  destiny,  and  I  throw  myself,  head 
foremost  [Za  tete  la  premiere],  into  the  abyss  of  the  fatality  which 
conducts  us.  Ah,  my  dear  angels,  have  pity  upon  the  struggles  that 
pass  within  me,  and  the  mortal  anguish  with  which  I  tear  myself 
from  you  !  I  have  almost  always  lived  apart  from  you  ;  but  formerly 
it  was  persecution  the  most  unjust,  the  most  cruel,  the  most  unrelent- 
ing, that  separated  us.  To-day  it  is  the  first  man  in  the  universe, 
it  is  a  crowned  philosopher,  who  takes  me  from  you.  How  do  you 
suppose  I  could  resist  ?  How  forget  the  barbarous  manner  in  which 
I  have  been  treated  in  my  country  ?  Do  you  bear  in  mind  that  they 
took  as  a  pretext  the  '  Mondain  '  ?  That  is  to  say,  the  most  innocent 
badinage,  which  I  would  read  at  Rome  to  the  Pope.  Do  you  remem- 
bei-,  I  say,  that  base  enemies  and  infamous  bigots  used  that  pretext  to 
have  me  exiled?  You  will  tell  me  that  fifteen  years  have  passed 
since  that  was  done.  No,  my  angels,  only  one  day  ;  for  those  atro- 
cious wrongs  are  always  recent  wounds." 

Madame  Denis  could  hardly  come  to  Prussia  after  having 
expressed  herself  so  freely  with  regard  to  the  Prussian  king. 
She  remained  at  Paris,  mistress  of  her  uncle's  house  there, 
which  he  still  maintained  at  an  expense  of  thirty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  as  if  to  preserve  for  himself  a  retreat  in  case  his 
niece  proved  a  true  prophet.  Frederic  himself  undertook  to 
procure  the  consent  of  the  King  of  France,  which  was  given 
without  delay.  The  French  king  took  from  him  his  office  of 
historiographer,  but  allowed  him  to  retain  his  title  of  gentle- 
man-in-ordinary of  the  chamber  and  his  pension  of  two  thou- 
sand francs  a  year.  Madame  du  Hausset,  the/emwie  de  chamhre 
of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  has  been  so  good  as  to  inform  us 
what  Louis  XV.  thought  of  Voltaire's  abandonment  of  his 
country.  That  monarch  was  accustomed  to  express  himself 
with  considerable  freedom  in  Pompadour's  boudoir,  witli  a 
few  of  his  familiars  around  him,  and  the  femme  de  chamhre 
within  hearing  distance.  He  greatly  admired  his  grandfather, 
Louis  XIV.,  and  all  his  lavish,  magnificent  ways;  and  he 
loved  to  imitate  him,  even  in  the  modest  pensions  bestowed 
by  Louis  XIV.  upon  Racine,  Boileau,  Moliere,  Corneille,  and 
others,  who  give  him  all  the  "  glory  "  that  remains  to  his 
name.  Louis  XV.,  Madame  du  Hausset  assures  us,  was  proud 
of  the  celebrity  of  Voltaire,  but  "  feared  him,  and  did  not 
<isteem  him."     One  evening,  the  conversation  turned  upon  his 


SETTLING  IN  PRUSSIA.  613 

removal  to  Berlin.  The  king  and  Madame  de  Pompadour 
may  both  have  heard  the  substance  of  a  very  long  letter  writ- 
ten in  August,  1750,  by  Voltaire  to  Richelieu,  in  which  the 
author  recounted  some  of  the  outrages  to  which  he  had  been 
subjected  through  the  machinations  and  misrepresentations  of 
the  mitred  dne  of  Mirepoix.     The  king  defended  himself :  — 

" '  I  have  treated  Voltaire,'  said  he,  '  as  well  as  Louis  XIV.  treated 
Kacine  and  Boileau.  I  gave  him,  as  Louis  XIV.  gave  Racine,  the 
post  of  gentleman-in-ordiiiary,  and  some  pensions.  It  is  not  my  fault 
if  he  has  committed  folHes,  and  if  he  aspires  to  be  a  chamberlahi,  to 
have  a  cross,  and  to  sup  with  a  king.  That  is  not  the  fashion  in 
France  ;  and,  as  there  are  more  men  of  genius  and  more  great  lords 
here  than  in  Prussia,  I  should  be  obliged  to  have  a  very  large  table 
to  hold  them  all '  (counting  upon  his  fingers) :  '  Maupertuis,  Fonte- 
nelle,  Lamotte,  Voltaire,  Piron,  Destouches,  Montesquieu,  the  Cardinal 
de  Polignac' 

"  '  Your  majesty  forgets,'  said  some  one,  '  D'Alembert  and  Clai- 
rault.' 

"  '  And  Crebillon,'  continued  the  king,  '  and  La  Chaussee.' 

'"And  Crebillon  junior,'  added  some  one  else;  'he  ought  to  be 
more  amiable  than  his  father.  And  there  is  still  the  Abbe  Prevost 
and  the  Abbe  d'OIivet.' 

"  '  Very  well,'  rejoined  the  king,  'during  the  last  twenty-five  years, 
all  that  would  have  dined  or  supped  with  me.' "  ^ 

The  King  of  France  being  thus  disposed  towards  him,  Ma- 
dame de  Pompadour  could  not  wish  him  to  return  to  Paris. 
She  could  exile  or  appoint  a  minister  more  easily  than 
she  could  then  protect  "  a  philosopher,"  and  Voltaire  had  no 
other  hope  of  a  safe  return.  He  had  written  a  long  letter 
to  Richelieu,  apologizing  both  to  her  and  to  him  for  his, 
apparent  "  desertion."  He  recalled  old  grievances  and  related 
new  ones.  He  said  that  the  Bishop  of  Mirepoix  had  so  poi- 
soned against  him  the  minds  of  the  Dauphin  and  the  queen 
that  he  had  no  prospect  in  France  but  an  old  age  of  sad  ob- 
scurity or  constant  apprehension. 

"  The  old  Bishop  of  Mirepoix  [said  he]  has  just  burst  out  against 
me  on  the  subject  of  a  little  piece,  imputed  to  me,  entitled  '  The  Voice 
of  the  People  and  the  Sage,'  a  production  which  has  called  forth  so 
many  others,  such  as  the  '  Voice  of   the  Pope,'  the  '  Voice  of    the 

^  Memoires  de  Madame  du  Hausset. 


614  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 

Priest,'  the  '  Voice  of    the    Layman,'  the  '  Voice  of  the  Capuchin,' 

etc Could  you  not  have  the  goodness  to  represent  to  Madame 

de  Pompadour  that  I  have  precisely  the  same  enemies  as  herself  ? 
If  she  is  jjiqued  at  my  desertion,  and  if  she  regards  me  as  a  fugitive, 
I  must  remain  where  I  am  ;  but  if  she  believes  that  1  can  be  reckoned 
among  those  who,  in  literature,  can  be  of  some  use,  if  she  wishes 
me  to  return,  could  you  not  say  to  her  that  you  know  my  attach- 
ment to  her,  that  she  alone  could  make  me  leave  the  King  of  Prus- 
sia, and  that  I  left  France  only  because  I  was  persecuted  there  by 
those  who  hate  her  ?  " 

But  she  made  no  sign.  For  the  present,  therefore,  he  had 
no  choice  but  to  remain  where  he  was. 

Madame  du  Hausset  adds  a  trifling  fact.  Her  companion 
in  office  (jna  camarade^  returned  to  the  palace,  one  day,  in- 
dignant at  a  "  profanation  "  she  had  witnessed  in  the  streets 
of  Paris.     She  had  heard  a  peddler  of  pictures  crying, — 

"  Here  is  Voltaire,  that  famous  Prussian !  Do  you  see  him, 
with  his  big  bear-skin  cap  on  to  keep  out  the  cold  ?  Only  six 
sous  for  the  famous  Prussian  !  " 


APPENDIX  I. 


LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS 


Relating  to  Voltaire  and  to  his  works,  arranged  according  to  the  dates 
of  publication  so  far  as  known,  and  with  their  titles  translated  into 
English. 

[Collectors  may  find  the  original  titles  of  the  following  works,  down  to  the  year  1842, 
in  the  "  Bibliographie  Voltairienne  "  of  J.  M.  Querard,  Paris,  1842.  The  rest  are  to  be 
found  in  publishers'  catalogues  issued  since  January,  1842.] 


A  Critical  Letter  upon  the  New  Tragedy 
of  CEdipe.  By  Father  Folard,  Jesuit. 
Paris.     1719. 

A  Criticism  of  the  Tragedy  of  (Edipe.  By 
the  Comedian,  Le  Grande.  36  pages, 
Svo.     Paris.     1719. 

A  Letter  to  Madame ,  containing  a 

Criticism  of  the  CEdipe  of  M.  de  Vol- 
taire.   By  M.  Van  Effen.     Paris.    1719. 

A  Letter  from  an  Abb6  to  a  Country  Gen- 
tleman, containing  Observations  upon 
the  Style  and  Thoughts  of  the  Tragedy 
of  (Edipe,  and  Reflections  upon  the  last 
Letter  of  M.  de  Voltaire.     Paris.     1719. 

A  Letter  to  M.  de  Voltaire  upon  the  New 
Tragedy  of  CEdipe.  By  De  Longpierre. 
Paris.     1719. 

Defense  of  Sophocles,  or  Remarks  upon 
the  Tliird  Critical  Letter  of  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. By  the  Abb6  Capperonier.  Paris. 
1719. 

Apology  of  Sophocles,  or  Remarks  upon 
the  Third  Critical  Letter  of  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. By  C  Capperonier.  Svo.  Paris. 
1719. 

A  Letter  from  a  Swedish  Gentleman  to  M. 
,  Professor  of  the  French  Lan- 
guage, upon  the  Tragedy  of  CEdipe. 
Paris.     1719. 

A  Refutation  of  the  Letter  from  a  Swedish 
Gentleman  upon  the  Tragedy  of  CEdipe. 
By  M.  D. .     Paris.     1719. 

Defense  of  the  New  Tragedy  of  CEdipe  of 


Voltaire.  By  L.  Mannory,  Advocate  to 
the  Parliament.     Paris.     1719. 

A  Reply  to  the  Defense  of  the  New  CEdipe. 
By  M.  M. .    Paris.    1719. 

A  Letter  from  the  Marquis  of  M to 

a  Gentleman,  his  Friend,  containing  a 
Criticism  of  the  Critics  of  M.  de  Voltaire's 
(Edipe.    Paris.     1719. 

New  Remarks  upon  the  CEdipe  of  M.  de 
Voltaire,  and  upon  his  Critical  Letters, 
wherein  Corneille  is  justified,  etc.  By 
the  Abb6  G(5rard.     Paris.     1719. 

The  Satirical  Journal  Intercepted,  or  a 
Defense  of  M.  Ai-ouet  de  Voltaire  and  JL 
de  La  Motte.  By  the  Sieur  Bourguig»on. 
48  pages,  Svo.    Paris.    1719. 

A  Critical  Letter,  or  Comparison  of  the 
three  ancient  epic  Poems,  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  of  Homer,  and  the  yEneid  of 
Virgil,  with  the  League,  or  Henry  the 
Great,  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  De  Belle- 
chaume.     15  pages,  Svo.     Paris.     1724. 

A  Second  Letter  upon  the  same  subject, 
and  by  the  same  Author.  44  pages,  Svo. 
Paris."    1724. 

Literary  Verities  upon  tlie  Tragedy  of 
Herod  and  Mariamne.  By  Messieurs  the 
Abb{5  Dcsfontaines  and  Granet.  12mo. 
Paris.     1725. 

Three  Letters  to  M.  de  containing 

some  Observations  upon  the  Tragedy  of 
Mariamne  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  J.  J. 
Bel.     1  vol.  12mo.     Paris.     1725. 


616 


LITE  OF   VOLTAIEE. 


Apology  for  M.  do  Voltaire.  By  the  Abb^ 
Pellegrin.     12mo.    Paris.     1725. 

Critical  Observations  upon  the  Tragedy  of 
Herod  and  Mariamne  of  M.  de  Voltaire. 
By  the  Abbe  Nadal.  12mo.  Paris.  1725. 

A  Criticism  of  the  Henriade.  The  Hague. 
1728. 

Critical  Letters  upon  the  Henriade  of  M. 
de  Voltaire.  By  Saint-Hyacinthe.  50 
pages,  8vo.     London.     1728. 

Thoughts  upon  the  Henriade.  23  pages, 
8vo.     London.     Without  date. 

Remarks  upon  M.  Voltaire's  Essay  on  the 
Epic  Poetry  of  European  Nations,  etc. 
By  Paul  Rolli.    London.     1728. 

A  Defense  of  some  Passages  in  Paradise 
Lost  from  the  Hyper-Criticism  of  M.  de 
Voltaire.  By  William  Duncombe.  Lon- 
don.    1728. 

Examination  of  the  Essay  upon  Epic  Po- 
etry of  M.  de  Voltaire.  Translated  from 
the  English  of  Paul  Rolli.  By  the  Abbe 
Autonini.     Paris.     1728. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Epistle  to  Uranie, 
preceded  by  a  Letter  to  M.  Bignon.  By 
Travenol.     Paris.     1732. 

Reflections  upon  Jealousy,  to  serve  as  Com- 
mentary upon  the  last  works  of  Voltaire. 
By  Le  Roy.  29  pages.  Amsterdam. 
1732. 

Remarks  Historical  and  Critical  upon  the 
History  of  Charles  XH.  By  M.  de  la 
Motraye.     12mo.     Paris.     1732. 

Religion  Defended,  a  Poem  against  the 
Epistle  to  Uranie.  By  F.  M.  C.  Des- 
champs.  Pamphlet,  46  pages.  Paris. 
1733. 

Vindication  of  the  Authors  censured  in  the 
Temple  of  Taste  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  Crit- 
ical Observations  upon  the  Temple  of 
Taste.  By  the  Abbt5  Roy.  32  pages, 
Svo.     Paris.     1733. 

A  Letter  from  M. to  a  Friend  on  the 

Subject  of  the  Temple  of  Taste  of  Vol- 
taire. By  the  Abbe  Goujet.  Paris. 
1733. 

Reply  to,  or  Criticism  upon,  the  Philosoph- 
ical Letters  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  Le 
Coq.  de  Villeray.  1  vol.  12mo.  Reims. 
1735. 

Letters  in  Replj-  to  M.  de  Voltaire's  Philo- 
sophical Letters  upon  the  English.  By 
the  Abb^  Molinier.     Paris.     1735. 

Letter  of  M.  de  Bonneval  upon  the  Criti- 


(ism  of  M.  de  Voltaire's  Philosophical 
Letters  by  the  Abb6  Molinier.  Paris. 
1735. 

Translation  of  a  Letter  of  M.  A.  Cocchi  to 
M.  Rinuccini,  Secretary  of  State  at  Flor- 
ence, upon  the  Henriade.     Paris.    1737. 

Upon  the  Thoughts  of  Pascal  (by  Vol- 
taire).    Paris  and  the  Hague.     1735. 

Criticism  of  Voltaire's  Comments  upon  the 
Thoughts  of  Pascal.  By  De  Villeray. 
Basle.     1735. 

Letter  of  a  Physicist  upon  the  Philosophy 
of  Newton,  as  popularized  bvM.  de  Vol- 
taire. By  Father  Regnault.  46  pages, 
12mo.    Paris.    1738. 

Reflections  upon  the  Philosophy  of  New- 
ton.    82  pages,  12mo.     Paris.     1738. 

Remarks  upon  the  History  of  Charles  XIL 
of  Voltaire.  By  Neitz.  Svo.  Frank- 
fort.   1738. 

The  Voltairomanie,  or  Letter  from  a  Young 
Advocate  in  Reply  to  the  Libel  of  the 
Sieur  de  Voltaire  entitled  The  Preserva- 
tive, etc.  By  the  Abb6  Desfoutaines. 
Paris.    1738. 

The  Mediator  between  Voltaire  and  the  Au- 
thor of  the  Voltairomanie,  a  Letter  to  M. 

le  Marquis  de .  By  J.  B.  D.  12mo, 

24  pages.     Toulouse.    1739. 

Letter  of  M. concerning  a  Pamphlet 

entitled  Life  of  Moliere.  (By  Voltaire.) 
Pamphlet,  24  pages.     Paris.     1739. 

Disinterested  Judgment  concerning  the  Dif- 
ference between  M.  de  Voltaire  and  the 
Abb6  Desfontaines.  Pamphlet,  12mo. 
Paris.     1739. 

Examination  and  Refutation  of  the  Ele- 
ments of  Newton's  Philosophj'  by  M.  de 
Voltaire,  with  a  Dissertation  upon  the 
Reflection  and  Refraction  of  Light.  By 
J.  Barrieres.     Paris.     1739. 

A  Letter  to  M.  de  Voltaire  upon  his 
Work  entitled  Replies  to  the  Objections 
brought  against  the  Philosophy  of  New- 
ton.    30  pages,  Svo.     Paris.     1739. 

Examination  and  Refutation  of  the  Ele- 
ments of  the  Philosophy  of  Newton.  By 
M.  Jean  Barrieres.    Paris.    1739. 

Examination  and  Refutation  of  some  Opin- 
ions upon  the  Causes  of  the  Reflection 
and  Refraction  of  Light  in  the  Work  of 
M.  Bagnieres.  By  L.  Le  Ratz.  50  pages, 
Svo.     Paris.     1740. 

Remarks,  Historical,  Political,  Mytholog- 


APPENDIX. 


617 


ical,  and  Critical,  upon  the  llenriade.  By 
LeBrun.     The  Hague.     1741. 

Remarks  of  a  Polish  Lord  (Count  Ponia- 
towski)  upon  the  History  of  Charles  Xll. 
of  Voltaire.     12rno.     The  Hague.    1741. 

Letters  upon  the  True  Principles  of  Relig- 
ion, wherein  are  examined  the^  Work 
upon  Religion  Essential  to  Man,  by 
Mademoiselle  Hcbrut ;  with  the  Defense 
of  the  Thoughts  of  Pascal  against  the 
Criticism  of  Voltaire,  and  three  letters 
relative  to  the  Philosophy  of  that  poet. 
By  D.  R.  Bouiller.  2  vols.  12mo.  Am- 
sterdam.    1741. 

Letter  from  an  Actor  of  Lille  upon  the 
Tragedy  of  Mahomet.  By  M.  de  Vol- 
taire.    Pamphlet,  8vo.     Paris.     1742. 

Sentiments  of  a  Spectator  of  the  Tragedy 
of  Mahomet.  By  the  Abbe  Cahague. 
Paris.     1742. 

Defense  of  tlie  Thoughts  of  Pascal.  By 
D.  R.  Bouiller.     Paris.     1742. 

Letter  from  a  Quaker  to  Francois  de  Vol- 
taire, occasioned  by  his  Remarks  upon 
the  English.  (By  Josias  Martin.)  1vol. 
8vo.     London.     1743. 

Discourse  delivered  at  the  Door  of  the 
French  Academy  by  the  Director  to  M. 
.(Attributed  to  Roy.)  Paris.  1743. 

Letter  to  the  Marquis  de upon  the 

Merope  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  a  Tragedy. 
By  Aubert  de  la  Chesmaye  des  Bois. 
Pamphlet,  8vo.    Paris.    1743. 

A  Criticism  of  Merope.  Pamphlet,  8vo. 
Paris.     1743. 

A  Comparison  of  the  two  M(5ropes,  Trage- 
dies, by  ]\Iaffei  and  by  Voltaire.  Pam- 
phlet, 12mo.     Paris.     1744. 

A  Letter  upon  the  Tragedy  of  Merope,  upon 
the  Comedy  of  the  School  of  Manners, 
and  upon  the  Freemasons.  Pamphlet, 
12mo.     Brussels.     1744. 

Pteply  of  the  Marquis  Scipio  de  Maffei,  au- 
thor of  the  Italian  Merope,  to  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, author  of  the  French  Merope.  Pam- 
phlet, 12mo.     Paris.     1744. 

The  Birth  of  Tinsel  and  of  her  daughter, 
Merope,  a  tale  allegorical  and  critical. 
Pamphlet,  12mo.    Paris.     1744. 

The     only    True    Religion     demonstrated 

against  the  Atheists,  the  Deists,  and  aU 

the   Sectarians.      By    Father    Lefevre, 

Jesuit.     1  vol.  12mo.     Paris.     1744. 

Examination  of  a  Book  entitled  The  Met- 


aphysics of  Newton.  Translated  from 
the  German  of  L.  M.  Kahle.  By  G-  de 
Saint-Blancard.     Paris.     1744. 

Sincere  Counsels  to  M.  de  Voltaire  on  the 
Subject  of  the  Sixth  Edition  of  his  Poem 
upon  the  Victory  of  Fontenoy.  Paris. 
1745. 

Retlections  upon  a  Printed  Piece  entitled 
The  Battle  of  Fontenoy,  a  Poem.  Dedi- 
cated to  M.  de  Voltaire.  (By  Drom- 
gold.)    Paris.    1745. 

Boileau  to  A'oltaire,  a  Satire.  By  Clement 
of  Dijon.    Paris.     1745. 

Collection  of  all  the  Pieces  concerning  the 
Suit  between  M.  de  Voltaire  and  the 
Sieur  Traveuol,  violinist  of  the  opera. 
Quarto.     Paris.     1746. 

Letter  from  an  Academician  of  Villefranche 
to  M.  de  Voltaire  upon  his  Reception 
Speech  at  the  French  Academy.  Pam- 
phlet, 4to.     Paris.     174G. 

Discourse  pronounced  at  the  Academy  by 
M.  de  Voltaire.  (A  burlesque.)  Paris. 
1746. 

Parallel  between  the  Henriade  and  the  Lu- 
rin.  By  the  Abbe  Batteux.  Paris. 
1746. 

Memoir  in  behalf  of  Louis  Travenol  against 
the  Sieur  Voltaire.  By  J.  A.  R.  de  Ju- 
vigny.     Pamphlet.     Paris.     1746. 

The  same,  with  the  Poetical  Triumph. 
(Published  by  L.  Travenol,  Jun.,  violin- 
ist of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Music.) 
Paris.     1746. 

Eevealed  Religion,  a  Poem  in  Reply  to  that 
upon  Natural  Religion.  By  M.  de  Sau- 
vigny.  8vo,  64  pages.  Geneva  and 
Paris.     1748. 

A  Melancholy  Epistle  of  the  Chevalier 
Pompon  to  La  Babiole  against  good  Taste, 
or  an  Apology  for  Sc'-miramis,  a  Tragedy 
of  M.  de  Voltaire.  Pamphlet  in  verse, 
12mo.     By  Travenol.    Paris.    1748. 

The  Poet  Reformed,  or  an  Apology  for  the 
Si^miramis  of  V.  By  Favicr.  Pampiilet 
8vo.     Amsterdam.     1748. 

An  Epistle  to  Philou  upon  the  Tragedy  of 
St^miramis.  In  verse.  Panijjhlet,  12mo. 
By  M.  VAhU  P.     Paris.     1748. 

Comparison  of  the  Semiramis  of  M.  de  Vol- 
taire and  that  of  M.  Crebillon.  By  Du- 
puy-Dempoi-tes.  46  pages,  8vo.  Paris. 
1748.    ■ 

A  Criticism,  Scene  by  Scene,  of  Semiramis, 


618 


LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 


a  Tragedy  by  M.  de  Voltaire.  Pamphlet, 
8vo.     Paris.     1748. 

A  Critical  Letter  upon  the  Tragedy  of 
St^miramis.  By  Desforges.  Pamphlet, 
12mo.     Paris.     1748. 

Letter  to  M.  de  Voltaire  upon  his  Tragedy 
of  Catilina.  By  Dupuy-Demportes.  Pam- 
phlet, 8vo.     Paris.    1748. 

A  Letter  from  Madame  S^miramis  to  Mon- 
sieur Catilina,  arranged  as  a  vaudeville. 
By  a  Songster  of  Paris.  Pamphlet,  Svo. 
Paris.     1748. 

Observations  upon  Catilina  (by  Cr^billon) 
and  of  Rome  Sauvee  (by  Voltaire).  Pam- 
phlet, 12mo.     Paris.     i749. 

Observations  upon  the  S^miramis  of  Vol- 
taire, and  upon  the  first  Criticism  of  that 
Tragedy.  By  L.  Mannory.  77  pages, 
8vo.    Paris.     1749. 

Natalica,  an  Indian  Tale,  or  a  Criticism  of 
Catilina.  By  Desforges.  Pamphlet,  12 
mo.    Paris.    1749. 

A  Letter  to  the  Author  of  Nanine.  By 
Guiard  de  Servign(5,  advocate  of  Reunes. 
Pamphlet,  12mo.     Paris.     1749. 

Nanin  and  Nanine,  a  fragment  of  a  tale 
translated  from  the  Arabic.  By  L.  D. 
V.     Pamphlet,  Svo.     Paris.     1749. 

Critical  Reflections  upon  the  Comedy  of 
Nanine.  By  M.  G.  Pamphlet,  Svo. 
Nancy.    1749. 

Reflections  upon  the  Tearful  Comic  (as  ex- 
emplified in  Voltaire's  comedy  of  Na- 
nine). By  M.  de  C,  of  the  Academy  of 
Rochelle.    74  pages,  12mo.    Paris.    1749. 

The  printed  Lies  of  M.  Arouet  de  Voltaire. 
Svo.    Holland.     1750. 

Historical  Dissertation  upon  the  Works  of 
M.  de  Voltaire.  By  Baculard  d'Arnaud, 
of  the  Academy  of  Berlin.  Pamphlet, 
24  pages.     1750. 

A  Comparison  of  the  four  Electras,  of 
Sophocles,  of  Euripides,  of  M.  de  Cr^bil- 
lou,  and  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  Gaillard. 
124  pages,  12mo.     The  Hague.     1750. 

Letter  to  Madame  the  Countess  of 

upon  the  Tragedy  of  Oreste  by  M.  de 
Voltaire,  and  upon  the  Comedy  upon  the 
Force  of  Nature,  by  M.  N.  Destouches. 
By  L.  de  Sepmanville.  Pamphlet,  12 
mo.    Paris.     1750. 

The  Voice  of  the  Bigarrure,  to  the  Authors 
of  the  Letters  for  and  against  the  Im- 
munities of  the  Clergy.    Paris.    1750. 


The  Voice  of  the  Capuchins.  By  the  Abb^ 
Herv6.     8  pages,  Svo.     Paris.     1750. 

The  Voice  of  the  Poet,  and  that  of  the  Le- 
vite.     22  pages,  12mo.     Paris.     1750. 

The  Voice  of  the  Poor  Man.  By  Joseph 
Languet  de  Gergy,  Archbishop  of  Tou- 
louse.    Paris.     1750. 

A  Voice  crying  in  the  Wilderness.  Paris. 
1750. 

The  Voice  of  the  Rich  Man.    Paris.    1750. 

Memoir  in  Aid  of  a  History  of  the  Immu- 
nities of  the  Church,  or  the  Ecclesiastical 

Conferences  of  Madame  de ,  or,  if 

preferred,  the  Voice  of  the  Woman.     23 
pages,  12mo.     Paris.     1750. 

The  Voice  of  the  Priest :  very  Humble  and 
very  Respectful  Remonstrances,  of  the 
Clergy  of  the  Second  Order,  to  the  King, 
on  the  Subject  of  the  Twentieth.  Paris. 
1750.     (Suppressed.) 

The  Voice  of  the  Christian  and  the  Bishop. 
12  pages,  12mo.     Paris.     1750. 

Collection  of  the  Voices  for  and  against 
the  Immunities  of  the  Clergy.  126  pages, 
12mo.     Paris.     1750. 

It  must  Needs  be  that  Offenses  Come.  30 
pages,  12mo.  Paris.  1750.  (Suppressed.) 

Voltaire,  Ass,  formerly  Poet  (containing 
satirical  letters,  parodies,  and  epigrams). 
39  pages,  Svo.     Paris.     1750. 

A  Dissertation  upon  the  Principal  Trage- 
dies, ancient  and  modern,  which  have 
appeared  upon  the  subject  of  Electra,  and, 
in  particular,  upon  that  of  Sophocles. 
Bj'  M.  Dumolard,  member  of  several 
Academies.  Pamphlet,  Svo.  London. 
1750. 

Abstract  of  the  Electras.  Pamphlet,  16 
pages.    Paris.     1750. 

Reflections  upon  the  Tragedy  of  Oreste,  in 
which  is  naturally  placed  the  Compari- 
son of  that  Piece  with  the  Electra  of  M. 
de  Crt'billon.  By  De  la  Morlifere.  47 
pages,  12mo.  Paris.  1750. 
Electra  Avenged,  or  a  Letter  upon  the 
Tragedy  of  Oreste  and  Electra.  By  M. 
le  N.  de  C  Pamphlet,  12mo.  Paris. 
1750. 
Critical  Response  to  the  Voice  of  the  Sage. 

12mo,  88  pages.     Paris.     1751. 
Tlie  Voice  of  the  Pope,  or  Brief  of  our       'J 
Holy  Father,  Pope  Benedict  XIV.,  con- 
veying the  condemnation  of  the  Letters, 
Ke  repugnate,  etc.,  and  of  the  Libel  en- 


APPENDIX. 


619 


titled  The  Voice  of  the  Sage,  of  Voltaire. 
In  Latin  and  in  French.     7  pages,  12mo. 
Paris.     1751. 
Refutations  of  a  Libel  entitled.  The  Voice 
of  tlie  Sage  and  of  the  People.     12ino, 
35  pages.     Paris.     1751. 
Dialogue  between  the  Age  of  Louis  XIV. 
and  the  Age  of  Louis  XV.     By  Carac- 
cioli.    12nio.     The  Hague.    1751. 
Thoughts    Anti-Philosophical.     By    Alla- 
mand  of   Lausanne.    1  vol.  12mo.    The 
Hague.     1751. 
Remarks  Historical  and  Political  upon  the 
Anti-Machiavelli  of  Frederic  II.,  as  given 
by  Voltaire.     By  L.  H.  de  Hesse.     Wis- 
mar.     1751. 
Refutation  of  a  Falsehood,  printed  in  the 
Age  of  Louis   XIV.     By  F.  L.  C.  Rival. 
4to.    Paris.    1752. 
Observations  upon  the  Tragedy  of  the  Due 
de  Foix  of  M.   de  Voltaire.     By  De  la 
Morliere.    Paris.     1752. 
Flemish  Letters,  or  History  of  the  Varia- 
tions and  Contradictions  (if  the  Pretended 
Natural  Religion.     By  the  'Abb(5  Duha- 
mel.     1  vol.     12mo.     Lille.     1752. 
The  Eight  Philosophic  Adventurers,  or  an 
unexpected  meeting  of  Messieurs  de  Vol- 
taire,   d'Argens,     Maupertuis,    Pr^vot, 
Crebillon,  Mouhi,   and    de    Mainvillers, 
in   the  Tavern  of  Jladame  Tripaudiere. 
A  comedy  in  prose.    The  Hague.    1752. 

Letter  from  M.  de  La  Beaumelle  to  M. 

upon  what  passed  between  him  and  Vol- 
taire.    Frankfort.     1753. 
The  Political  Age  of  Louis  XIV.,  or  Let- 
ters  of  the  Viscount  Bolingbroke   upon 
^  that   subject,    together  with  the  pieces 
which  formed  the  History  of  the  Age  of 
M.  de  Voltaire,  and  of  his  quarrels  with 
Messrs.  de  Maupertuis  and  de  La  Beau- 
melle; followed  bj' the  Disgrace  of  that 
famous  poet.      12mo,    495   pages.     Sie- 
clopolis.     (Frankfort.)     1753. 
,  Remarks  upon  the  Age  of  Louis  XIV.    By 
^^  La  Beaumelle.     Frankfort.     1753. 
Critical  Letters  upon  the  Philosophical  Let- 
ters   of  Voltaire.     By  D.    R.   Boullier, 
Protestant  minister.     Paris.     1753. 
A  Dissertation  upon  the  Italian  Poetry,  in 
which  are  interspersed  some  remarks  on 
M.  Voltaire's  Essay  on  the  Epic  Poets. 
By  Jos.  Baretty.     London.     1753. 
Response  to  the  Supplement  (by  Voltaire) 


of  the  Age  of  Louis  XIV.  By  !M.  de  la 
Beaumelle.  12mo.  1G6  pages.  Colmar. 
1754. 

Narrative  of  the  Quarrel  of  M.  de  la  Beau- 
melle with  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  M. 
Roques.     Svo.     Hanover.     1755. 

Memoir  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  annotated  byM. 
de  la  Beaumelle,  preceded  by  a  Letter  to 
Madame  Denis.     Frankfort.     1755. 

Reflections  upon  the  Untrustworthiness  of 
the  Documents  which  M.  de  Voltaire  has 
followed  in  treating  (in  his  Abridgment 
of  Universal  History  to  our  Days)  the 
fragment  entitled  Affaire  of  Genoa  and 
Provence  in  1746  and  1747.  By  M.  de 
la  Porte.     Svo,  15  pages.     Paris.     1755. 

Letter  of  M.  de  Bury  to  M.  de  Voltaire  on 
the  sul)ject  of  his  Abridgment  of  Univer- 
sal History.     Svo.    London.     1755. 

Criticism  of  the  Universal  History  of  M.  de 
Voltaire  upon  the  subject  of  Mohammed 
and  Mohammedanism.  12mo,  43  pages. 
Paris.     1755. 

A  Letter  from  Poinsinet  Junior  to  a  man 
of  the  olden  time  upon  the  Orphan  of 
China,  a  tragedy  by  M.  de  Voltaire, 
represented  for  the  first  time  August  20, 
1755.     Pamphlet,  Svo.     Paris-     1755. 

Analysis  of  the  Tragedy  of  the  Orphan  of 
China.  By  De  la  Morliere.  42  pages, 
12mo.     Paris.     1755. 

A  Letter  from  Father  Grisbourdon  to  M. 
de  Voltaire  upon  the  Poem  of  the  Pucelle. 
B}-  De  Junquieres.  11  pages,  12mo. 
Paris.     1756. 

Introduction  to  the  Ilenriade,  by  Frederic 
II.,  King  of  Prussia.  (Written  in  1736.) 
Geneva.     1756. 

Letter  to  M.  de  Voltaire  concerning  his 
poem  upon  the  Destruction  of  Lisbon. 
By  J.  J.  Rousseau.    Paris.     1756. 

The  Anti-Naturalist,  or  Ci'itical  Examina- 
tion of  the  Poem  upon  Natural  Religion. 
Svo,  21  pages.     Berlin.     1756. 

Reflections,  Historical  and  Literary,  con- 
cerning the  Poem  upon  Natural  Religion 
by  Voltaire.  By  Thomas.  Paris.  1756. 
Anecdotic  Parody  of  31.  de  Voltaire's  poem 
upon  Natural  Religion.  Svo,  52  pages. 
The  Hague.  1757. 
Remarks  upon  Natural  Religion,  a  Poem 
by  M.  de  Voltaire,  followed  by  an  addi- 
tion from  Geneva  to  the  same  poem.  Svo, 
72  pages.    Louvain.    1757. 


620 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


Religion  Avenged,  or  Refutation  of  the  Im- 
pious Authors.  By  a  Society  of  Men  of 
Letters  (Soret,  Father  Haver,  and  oth- 
ers).    21   vols.  12mo.      Paris.      1757. 

Epistle  from  a  disinterested  Man  to  M.  de 
Voltaire  concerning  his  poem  upon  Nat- 
ural Religion  :  being  an  Examination  of 
Voltaireanism  in  prose  and  in  verse. 
Paris.     1757. 

A  Letter  written  from  Geneva  to  M.  de 
Voltaire.  By  Prof.  Jacob  Vernet.  Pam- 
phlet, 12mo.     Geneva.     1757. 

Letter  to  M.  Formey,  in  which  are  exam- 
ined two  Chapters  of  M.  de  Voltaire  in 
the  Essay  upon  Universal  History,  con- 
cerning Calvin.  By  Professor  Jacob 
Verney.     Frankfort.     1758. 

The  Quarrel  between  Messieurs  de  Vol- 
taire and  de  Maupertuis.  8vo.  Paris. 
1758. 

The  Literary  War,  or  some  Select  Pieces 
of  M.  de.  v.,  with  the  replies,  to  serve  as 
Sequel  and  Commentary  to  his  works. 
12mo,  294  pages.     Lausanne.     1759. 

The  Oracle  of  the  new  Philosophers,  to 
serve  as  Supplement  and  Commentary 
to  the  Works  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  By 
the  Abbe  C.  M.  Guyon.  12mo.  Berne. 
1759. 

An  Epistle  from  the  Devil  to  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. By  the  Marquis  D .  Pam- 
phlet. 16  pages.  Avignon,  1760,  and 
Paris,  182-3. 

Ode  and  Letters  to  M.  de  Voltaire  in  favor 
of  the  Family  of  the  Great  Corneille. 
By  M.  Lebrun.  With  the  reply  of  M. 
de  Voltaire.     12mo.     Paris.     1760. 

Sequel  to  the  Oracle  of  the  New  Philoso- 
phers, to  ser\'e  as  Supplement  and  Com- 
mentary to  the  Works  of  M.  de  Voltaire. 
By  the  AhU  C.  M.  Guyon.  1  vol.  8vo. 
Berne.     1760. 

The  King  of  Prussia's  Criticism  on  the 
Henriade  of  M.  Voltaire.  Translated 
from  the  original ;  with  a  preface  con- 
taining a  short  account  of  the  Disgrace 
and  Retreat  of  that  favorite.  London. 
1760. 

Letter  from  M.  de  Voltaire  to  M.  Palissot, 
with  the  Reply,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Comedy  of  the  Philosophers.  Paris. 
1760. 

Epistle  to  a  Friend  in  his  Retreat  upon  the 
occasion  of  the  Philosophers,  and  L'Ecos- 


saise,  a  burlesque  in  verse.  Pamphlet, 
12mo.    Paris.     1760. 

Discourse  upon  the  Satire  (by  Palissot) 
against  the  Philosophers  represented  by 
a  Troupe  supported  by  a  poet  Philoso- 
pher, and  approved  by  an  Academician 
who  has  Philosophers  for  Colleagues.  By 
the  Abb6  Coyer.  Pamphlet,  12mo. 
Paris.     1760. 

Opinion  of  an  Unknown  Person  upon  the 
Oracle  of  the  New  Philosopher,  to  serve 
as  Commentary  and  Errata  to  that  work. 
Dedicated  to  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  Chau- 
meix.     1  vol.     12mo.   Paris.     1760. 

A  Letter  from  Beelzebub  to  the  Author  of 
the  Pucelle.    8  pages,    8vo.  Paris.  1760. 

Verses  upon  the  Poem  of  the  Pucelle  to  M. 

M. ,  who  had  sent  a  veiy  incorrect 

copy  of  it.     4  pages,  8vo.    Paris.    1760. 

An  Essay  upon  the  Pucelle  of  Voltaire  con- 
sidered as  an  Epic  Poem.  By  M.  Eusebe 
Salverte.    Paris.    1760. 

Replies  to  the  Whens,  to  the  Ifs,  and  to 
the  Whys.  Pamphlet,  12mo.  Paris.  1760. 

The  Whys,'  a  Reply  to  the  ridiculous 
Whens  of  the  Count  de  Tornet.  Pam- 
phlet, 8vo.     Paris.     1760. 

The  Whens,  after  the  manner  of  the  Eight 
of  M.  de  v.,  or.  Letter  from  an  Appren- 
tice Bel-Esprit,  who  is  not  wanting  in 
Common  Sense,  to  his  Father  in  the 
Country,  in  order  to  give  him  a  good 
Opinion  of  his  Son.  Pamphlet,  12mo. 
Paris.     1760. 

Parallel  between  M.  de  Voltaire  and  M. 
Crf^vier  as  Historians.  By  De  Passe. 
Pamphlet.    Paris.     1761. 

Letter  from  the  Czar  Peter  to  M.  de  Vol- 
taire upon  his  History  of  Russia.  Pam- 
phlet, 39  pages.  By  La  Beaumelle. 
Toulouse.     1761. 

A  Fugitive  Examination  of  the  Fugitive 
Pieces  of  Messrs.  de  Voltaire,  Desmahis, 
and  other  authors,  etc.  80  pages,  12mo. 
Plaisance.     1761. 

Anti-Sans-Souci,  or  the  Folly  of  the  new 
Philosophers.  2  vols.  12mo.  Bouillon. 
1761. 

Remarks  upon  the  new  Discoveries  of  M. 
de  Voltaire  in  Natural  Historj'.  Lon- 
don.    1761. 

Reflections  upon  the  System  of  the  new 
Philosophers.  By  Le  Pr6vot  d'Exmes. 
12mo.     Frankfort.     1761. 


APPENDIX. 


621 


Narrative  of  the  Sickness,  Confossinn,  and 
End  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  and  of  what  f  d- 
lowed.  By  me,  Joseph  Dubois.  Pam- 
phlet. Geneva.  1761. 
A  Letter  to  M.  de  Voltaire,  with  Compara- 
tory  Descants  on  the  extraordinary  Com- 
position and  Incidents  of  a  Dramatic 
Poem,  called  The  Desert  Island ;  also, 
Remarks  on  the  Tragedy  of  the  Siege  of 
Aquilei.  By  a  gentleman.  Pamphlet. 
London.  17G1. 
A  Codicil  of  Voltaire,  found  among  his 
papers  after  his  death.  Pamphlet.  Paris. 
1762. 
Challenge  to  the  Philosophers  on  four 
Paws,  or  Immaterialism  opposed  to  Ma- 
terialism. By  the  Abb(5  Pichon.  8vo. 
Brussels.  1763. 
Apology  for  the  Jewish  Nation,  or  Critical 
Reflections  upon  the  first  chapter  of  the 
seventh  volume  of  the  works  of  M.  de 
Voltaire  upon  the  Jews.  By  the  author 
of  The  Essay  upon  Luxury  (Isaac  Pinto, 
a  Portuguese  Jew).  12mo.  Amsterdam. 
1762.  (See  article  upon  the  Jews  in  the 
Philosophical  Dictionarj'',  for  the  chapter 
criticised  in  this  work.) 
Illusions  of  the  Treatise  upon  Tolerance. 

24  pages,  ^vo.     Paris.    1763. 
Anti-Uranie,    or    Deism    compared    with 
Christianity,  Epistles  to  M.  de  Voltaire; 
followed  by  Critical    Reflections    upon 
several  Works  of  that  celebrated  Author. 
By  Father  Bonhomme,  Cordelier.    8vo, 
127  pages.     Paris.     1763. 
Letter  to  a  Friend  in  the  Country  upon  the 
Gu^bres   and   the   Scythians,    Tragedies 
by  M.  de  Voltaire.     Pamphlet.     Paris. 
1763. 
Examination  of  the  Scythians  (a  tragedy 
of  M.   de  Voltaire).       Pamphlet,    8vo. 
Paris.     1763. 
Voltaire,    a  Poem   in   Free   Verses.     8vo. 
By  M.  Leclerc  de  Montmercy,  advocate. 
8vo.    Paris.     1764. 
Examination  of  the  Catechism  of  the  Hon- 
est Man  (l\v  Voltaire),  or  a  Dialogue  be- 
tween a  MonJt  and  a  Man  of  Worth.    By 
the  Abb6  L.  le  Francois.     Paris.     1764. 
Historical  Examination  of  the  Four  Beau- 
tiful  Ages  of    M.    de   Voltaire  (in   the 
first  chapter  of  the  Age  of  Louis  XIV.). 
By  A.  J.  Roustan,  Protestant  minister. 
Amsterdam.     1764. 


Letter  to  the  Author  of  the  Catechism  of 
the  Honest  Man.  12mo,  12  pages.  The 
Hague.    176.5. 

A  Reply  to  M.  de  Voltaire,  or  a  defense  of 
the  axiom.  All  is  Well.  8vo,  16  pages. 
Paris.     1765. 

Epistle  to  the  Author  of  Anti-Uranie.  By 
J.  C.  Courtalon-Delaistre.  Troyes.   1765. 

Remarks  upon  a  Book  entitled  Portable 
Philosophic  Dictionary.  By  a  member 
of  the  Society  for  the  Propagation  of 
Christian  Doctrine.     Lausanne.     1765. 

Letter  to  a  Countrj'  Friend,  containing 
some  observations  upon  Adelaide  du 
Guesclin,  a  Tragedy  of  M.  de  Voltaire. 
38  pages,  12mo.    Amsterdam.    1765. 

Memoir  to  the  First  Sj-ndic  of  Geneva, 
xipon  a  Libel  of  Voltaire.  By  Professor 
J.  J.  Vernet.  Pamphlet.  Geneva.  1760. 

Supplement  to  the  Philosophy  of  History 
of  the  late  Abbd  Bazin  (Voltaire.)  By 
P.  H.  Larcher.    Svo.  Amsterdam.  1767. 

Anti-Philosophical  Dictionary,  designed  as 
commentary  and  corrective  of  the  Philo- 
sophical Dictionary,  and  of  the  other 
books  which  have  appeared  in  our  days 
against  Christianity.  By  the  Abb^  L.  M. 
Chaudon.    2  vols.  Svo.    Avignon.    1767. 

Certainty  of  the  Proofs  of  Christianity,  or 
the  Examination  of  the  Apologists  for 
the  Christian  Religion  refuted.  By  the 
Abb6  N.  S.  Bergier.  2  parts,  i2mo. 
Paris.    1767. 

The  Pick-Lock,  or  Voltaire's  Hue  and  Cry 
after  a  celebrated  Wit-Stealer,  and  dra- 
matic Smuggler.     London.    1767. 

A  Defense  of  Mr.  Rousseau  against  the 
Aspersions  of  Mr.  Hume,  Mr.  Voltaire, 
and  their  Associates.  Pamphlet.  Lon- 
don.    1767- 

Observations  to  Messieurs  of  the  French 
Academy  upon  a  Letter  from  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, read  in  that  Academy,  at  the  So- 
lemnity of  Saint  Louis,  August  25,  1776. 
By  the  Chevalier  de  Rutlidgc.  Pamphlet, 
8vo.    Paris.    1767. 

The  Friend  of  Truth,  or  impartial  Letters 
mingled  with  curious  Anecdol-os  upon  the 
Plays  of  Voltaire.  By  G.  Dourxign^. 
12mo.    Amsterdam.     1767. 

Response  to  the  Philosophy  of  History  (of 
Voltaire).  By  L.  Viret,  Cordelier.  12mo. 
Paris.     1767. 

Response  to  the  Defense  of  my  Uncle,  jHre- 


622 


LITE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


ceded  by  the  Narrative  of  the  Death  of 
the  Abb6  Bazin.  By  P.  H.  Larcher. 
8vo.    Amsterdam.     1767. 

Ferney,  an  Epistle  to  M.  Voltaire;  in 
which  is  introduced  a  fine  Eulogium  on 
Shakespeare.  By  George  Keate.  4to. 
London.    17G8, 

The  Abb^  Bazin  (Voltaire).  Philosophy  of 
History.  By  J.  G.  Herder.  8vo.  Eiga. 
1768. 

Defense  of  the  Books  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment against  the  Essay  of  Voltaire  en- 
titled The  Philosophy  of  Historj'.  By 
the  Abb^  J.  G.  Clemence.  8vo.  Eouen 
and  Paris.     1768. 

Reply  of  a  Countrj'man  of  Pierrefort  to 
the  Philosopher  of  Saint-Flour,  Capu- 
chin and  Cook,  upon  Shells  and  many 
other  things.     Paris.     1768. 

Refutation  of  Belisaire  and  bis  Oracles  (J. 
J.  Rousseau,  A^oltaire,  etc. ).  By  Aubert, 
Canon  of  Saint-Antoine.  12mo.  Paris. 
1768. 

The  Quakers  to  their  Brother  Voltaire, 
Letters  more  Philosophical  than  those  of 

upon  his  Religion  and  his  Works. 

By  the  Comte  d'Autrey.  8vo.  London 
and  Paris.     1768. 

Great  Men  Avenged,  or  Examination  of  the 
Judgments  rendered  by  M.  de  Voltaire, 
and  by  some  other  philosophers,  upon 
several  celebrated  Men,  in  alphabetical 
order,  with  a  great  number  of  critical 
Remarks  and  literary  Judgments.  2  vols. 
8vo.     Amsterdam  and  Lyons.     1769. 

Letters  upon  some  Works  of  M.  de  Vol- 
taire. By  R.  de  Bury.  8vo.  Amster- 
dam and  Paris.     1769. 

Commentary  upon  the  Henriade.  By  L. 
A.  de  la  Beaumelle,  revised  and  correct- 
ed (and  preceded  by  the  life  of  the  au- 
thor).   By  M.  Fr(5ron.     Paris.     1769. 

A  Letter  to  M.  de  Voltaire  upon  the  Operas 
Philosophico-Comie,  in  -which  is  found 
the  Criticism  upon  Lucile,  a  comedy  in 
one  act  and  in  verse  with  songs.  By  La 
Tonraille.    Amsterdam.     1769. 

Reply  to  the  Reasonable  Counsels  (of  Vol- 
taire), designed  as  a  Supplement  to  the 
Certainty  of  the  Proofs  of  Christianity. 
Ry  the  Abbd  N.  S.  Bergier.  Paris. 
1769. 

Letters  of  some  Jews,  Portuguese,  German, 
and  Polish,  to  M.  de  Voltaire ;  followed 


by  a  little  Commentary  extracted  from 
a  larger  one.  By  the  Abbe  A.  Guenee. 
1  vol.  8vo.     Lisbon  and  Paris.     1769. 

The  Bad  Dinner,  or  Letters  upon  the  Din- 
ner of  the  Count  de  Boulainvilliors  (by 
Voltaire).  By  the  Rev.  Father  Viret. 
8vo,  282  pages.     Paris.     1770. 

Exposition  of  the  Song  of  Songs,  against 
the  Commentary  by  Voltaire.  By  D'An- 
sart.     Paris.    1770. 

Vindication  of  the  Sacred  Books  and  of  Jo- 
sephus  from  various  Misrepresentations 
and  Cavils  of  Voltaire.  By  Robert  Find- 
lay,  D.  D.,  Divinity  Professor  in  Glas- 
gow.   8vo.     Glasgow.     1770. 

Letters  from  India  to  the  Author  of  the 
Age  of  Louis  XV.  By  De  la  Flotte. 
Svo.    Amsterdam  and  Paris.     1770. 

A  new  Commentary  upon  the  Ecclesiast, 
with  reference  to  some  passages  ab- 
stracted by  M.  de  Voltaire;  with  notes 
upon  the  Commentary  of  that  Poet.  8vo, 
19  pages.    Paris.     1770. 

Thoughts  Anti-Philosophical.  By  the  Abbe 
Camuset.     Svo.    Paris.     1770. 

Portable  Dictionary  Philosopho-Theologic- 
al.     By  the  Abb6  Paulian.     Paris.  1770. 

Observations  upon  the  Philosophy  of  His- 
tory, and  upon  the  Philosophical  Dic- 
tionary; with  soine  Replies  to  several 
Difficulties.  By  the  Abb6  L.  le  Fran- 
cois.    2  vols.  Svo.     Paris.    1770. 

Response  to  Voltaire's  Reasonable  Coun- 
sels, to  serve  as  Supplement  to  the  Cer- 
tainty of  the  Proofs  of  Christianity.  By 
M.  Bergier.     12mo.     Paris.     1771. 

Philosophic  Picture  of  the  Mind  of  Vol- 
taire, to  serve  as  Supplement  to  his 
Works.  By  the  Abb(5  Sabatior.  Svo. 
Geneva  and  Paris.     177L 

A  Philosophic  Delineation  of  the  Mind  of 
M.  de  Voltaire,  to  serve  as  a  Sequel  to  his 
Works,  and  as  Jlemoirs  for  the  History' 
of  his  Life.  By  De  Castres.  Svo.  Ge- 
neva and  Paris.     1771. 

Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Shake- 
speare compared  with  the  Greek  and 
French  Dramatic  Poets;  with  Remarks 
upon  the  Misrepresentations  of  !M.  de 
Voltaire.  By  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Montague. 
1  vol.  Svo.     London.     1772. 

Letter  to  M.  de  Voltaire  by  one  of  his 
friends,  upon  the  Work  entitled  the  Gos- 
pel for  the  Day.     Svo.     Paris      1772. 


APPENDIX. 


623 


Let  Him  Answer;  or  Letters  of  Doctor 
Chl^vales  to  M.  de  Voltaire  on  sending 
him  the  Manuscript  Copy  of  another 
Letter,  to  which  it  does  not  appear  that 
he  has  replied.  By  the  Abbe  de  Cavei- 
rac.  8vo.  Geneva  and  Paris.  1772. 
(Eeply  to  Voltaire  upon  the  Massacres 
of  St.  Bartholomew.) 

Philosophic  Dictionary  of  Religion,  whei-e- 
in  are  established  all  the  Points  of  Doc- 
trine attacked  by  the  Unbelievers,  and 
all  Objections  replied  to.  By  the  Author 
of  the  Errors  of  Voltaire  (the  Abbe  C. 
F.  Nonnotte).  4  vols.  12mo.  Avignon. 
1772. 

A  Discourse  upon  Shakespeare  and  upon 
M.  de  Voltaire.  Pamphlet.  By  Jos. 
Baretti.     Paris.     1772. 

Letters  to  M.  de  Voltaire  by  one  of  his 
Friends  upon  the  work  entitled  The  Gos- 
pel of  the  Day.  By  Ducrane  de  Blangy. 
8vo.    Paris.     1773. 

Instructions  from  the  Father-Guardian  of  the 
Capuchins  of  Gex  to  a  brother  mendicant 
setting  out  for  the  chateau  of  Feme}'. 
Translated  from  the  Italian  by  the  Rev. 
Father  Adam.    Amsterdam.     1772. 

The  Tale  of  Ferney.  A  Divertisement. 
By  the  Abb6  de  Launay.     Paris.     1773. 

Reflections,  critical  and  political,  upon  the 
Tragedy  of  the  Laws  of  iNIinos  of  Vol- 
taire, addressed  to  M.  Thomas,  of  the 
French  Academy.  By  the  Abb^  T.  J. 
Duvernct.  51  pages,  8vo.  Amsterdam 
and  Paris.     1773. 

Letters  (nine)  to  M.  de  Voltaire,  or  Conver- 
sations upon  several  Works  of  that  Poet. 
By  Clement  of  Dijon.     Paris.     1773. 

Proofs  Positive  in  the  Case  of  the  V(?ron 
Heirs  against  the  Count  of  Morangies, 
with  confirmatory  Documents  on  behalf 
of  the  Sieur  Li(^gard  du  Jonquay,  Grand- 
son of  Madame  Veron,  Doctor  of  Laws, 
to  serve  as  a  reply  to  the  New  Probabil- 
ities of  M.  de  Voltaire.  126  pages,  8vo. 
Paris.    1773. 

The  Fiftieth  Dramatic  Anniversary  of  M. 
de  Voltaire,  followed  by  the  Inaugura- 
tion of  his  Statue.  A  Medley  in  one  act 
and  in  prose,  with  songs  and  dances. 
By  Du  Coudray.     Paris.     1774 

M.  de  Voltaire  painted  by  himself,  or 
Letters  of  that  Writer,  in  which  are  seen 
the  History  of  his  Life,  of  his  Works,  of 


his  Quarrels,  of  his  Correspondence,  and 
of  the  principal  Traits  of  his  Character, 
with  a  great  Number  of  Anecdotes,  Re- 
marks, etc.  12mo.  Lausanne.  1766, 
and  1775. 

Voltaire  Appreciated,  a  Comedy  in  one  act 
and  in  verse.  By  Etienne  Billard. 
Paris.     1775. 

Epistle  to  La  Beaumelle  at  the  Champs- 
Elysees,  on  the  Subject  of  his  Commen- 
tary upon  the  Heuriade.  By  Curieres- 
Palmezcaux.     Paris.    1776. 

Voltaire  in  the  Shades.  1  vol.  12mo. 
Geneva  and  Paris.    1776. 

Letter  from  a  Friend  of  Men,  or  a  Reply 
to  the  Diatribe  of  M.  de  Voltaire  against 
the  Clergy  of  France.  By  the  author  of 
the  Preservative  (Father  C.  L.  Richard, 
Dominican).    Bvo.    Deux-Ponts.    177G. 

Historical  Memoirs  of  the  Author  of  the 
Henriade.  With  some  original  Pieces. 
To  which  are  added  genuine  Letters  of 
Mr.  de  Voltaire.  Taken  from  his  own 
Minutes.  Translated  from  the  French. 
1   vol.  12mo.    London.     1777. 

Philosophical  Catechism,  or  a  Collection  of 
Observations,  with  which  to  defend  the 
Christian  Religion  against  its  Enemies. 
By  Flexier  de  RevaL  Svo.  Paris.  1777. 
(Many  editions.) 

Voltaire  on  his  Return  from  the  Shades, 
and  upon  the  Point  of  going  back  thither, 
to  return  no  more;  addressed  to  all  those 
whom  he  has  deceived.  By  Father  C. 
L.  Richard.  1  vol.  Svo.  Brussels  and 
Paris.     1776.     London.     1777. 

Letter  upon  the  Origin  of  the  Sciences,  and 
upon  that  of  the  Peoples  of  Asia;  ad- 
dressed to  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  J.  S. 
Baill}'.    Svo.    London  and  Paris.    1777. 

Apology  for  Shakespeare,  translated  from 
the  English  of  Milady  Montague.  By  F. 
Letourucur,  Translator  of  Shakespeare. 
1  vol.  Svo.     Paris.     1777. 

Discourse  upon  Shakespeare  and  M.  de 
Voltaire.  By  Joseph  Baretti,  corre- 
sponding secretary  of  the  British  Royal 
Academy.    1  vol.  Svo.     London.    1777. 

Eulogy  of  Voltaire,  read  to  the  Academy  of  \^ 
Berlin,  November  26,  1778.  By  Frederic -^"^ 
n.,  King  of  Prussia.    Svo.    Berlin.   1778. 

Eulogy  of  Voltaire,  followed  by  various 
poems.  Svo.  By  Curiferes-Palmezeaux. 
Paris.    1778. 


624 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


Eulogy  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  Bj-  Charles 
Palissot.   8vo.    London  and  Paris.    1778. 

Eulogy  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  By  the  Marquis 
de  Luchet.    Svo.    Cassel.    1778. 

Verses  upon  Voltaire,  and  upon  his  Apo- 
theosis on  Parnassus.  By  G.  de  Chaba- 
non.     Pamphlet.   16  pages.   Paris.   1778 

Eulogy  of  Voltaire.  By  Gazon  Dourxign^. 
8vo.    Paris.    1779. 

Eulogy  of  Voltaire,  pronounced  at  the  pub- 
lic session  of  the  French  Academy,  May 
4,  1779.  By  D'Alembert.  8vo.  Paris. 
1779. 

Epistle  to  Voltaire,  a  Piece  which  ob- 
tained the  second  prize  from  the  French 
Academy  in  1779.  By  M.  de  Murville. 
8vo.     Paris.     1779. 

Lyrical  Eulogy  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  recited 
at  the  close  of  the  Rival  Muses  by  the 
actors  of  the  Theatre  of  Lyons.  By 
Benech.     8vo.     Lyons.     1779. 

Eulogy  of  Voltaire,  a  Poem  which  com- 
peted for  the  prize  of  the  French  Acad- 
emy in  1779.  By  P.  J.  B.  Xougaret. 
Geneva,  Paris,  and  Philadelphia.     1779. 

Eulogy  of  Voltaire,  pronounced  in  the  Ma- 
sonic Lodge  of  the  Nine  Sisters.  By  De 
la  Dixmerie.  8vo,  128  pages.  Geneva 
and  Paris.     1779. 

Eulogy  of  Voltaire,  a  Piece  which  competed 
for  the  prize  in  1779.  By  the  Marquis 
de  Pastoret.     Svo.    Paris.     1779. 

Voltaire,  an  Ode,  a  piece  which  competed 
for  the  prize  of  the  French  Academy  in 
1779.  By  J.  Geofiroy.  Svo,  12  pages. 
Paris.     1779. 

To  the  Manes  of  Voltaire,  a  Poem  which 
received  the  prize  from  the  French  Acad- 
emy. By  J.  F.  de  La  Harpe.  Pamphlet. 
Paris.     1779. 

Impartial  Reflections  upon  the  Eulogies  of 
Voltaire,  which  competed  for  the  prize  of 
the  French  Academj'.  By  L.  de  Boissy- 
8vo.     Paris.     1779. 

The  Shade  of  Voltaire  at  the  Champs-Ely- 
sdes,  a  comedy-ballet  in  prose  and  verse, 
dedicated  to  the  Manes  of  that  great 
Man.     By  M.  Moline.     Paris.     1779. 

Letter  from  A.  S.  de  Castres  to  the  Abb6 
Fontenai,  editor  of  the  Annonces  et  Af- 
fiches  pour  la  Province,  upon  the  late  M. 
de  Voltaire.  Pamphlet,  16  pages.  Paris. 
1779. 

The  Rival  Muses,  or  the  Apotheosis  of  Vol- 


taire, a  Comedy  in  one  act  and  in  free 
verses.  By  J.  F.  de  La  Harpe.  Paris. 
1779. 

Racine,  Crdbillon,  and  Voltaire,  with 
grammatical  Remarks  upon  some  Verses 
of  the  Tragedies  of  Cr^billon.  By 
D'Acarq.    Pamphlet.    Paris.     1779. 

Supplement  to  the  EiTors  of  Voltaire,  or 
complete  Refutation  of  his  Treatise  upon 
Tolerance.  By  an  ix;clesia.«tic  of  the 
Diocese  of  Reims  (the  Abbe  Loisson, 
cure  of  Vrisy).    Liege  and  Paris.    1779. 

Voltairimeros,  or  the  first  Day  of  M.  de 
Voltaire  in  the  Other  World.  By  the 
Ahhi  Baston.  2  vols.  12mo.  Brusseb. 
1779. 

Voltaire,  a  Poem  read  at  the  Academic 
Festival  of  the  Lodge  of  the  Nine  Sisters. 
By  F.  des  Oliviers.  Ferney  and  Paris. 
1779. 

Memoirs  and  Anecdotes  to  serve  for  the 
History  of  Voltaire.  16mo.  Li^e. 
1780. 

The  Death  of  Voltaire,  an  Ode,  followed  by 
his  Eulogy,  with  the  Tragedy  of  Eriphile 
and  other  pieces,  to  serve  as  a  sequel  to 
the  Memoirs  aud  Anecdotes  of  that  il- 
lustrious man.     12mo.     Paris.     1780. 

Voltaire  and  other  Poems.  By  P.  L.  A. 
Veau  de  Launay.     Paris.     1780. 

Letters  upon  Revealed  Religion,  against 
Voltaire.  By  the  Baron  de  Haller. 
Translated  from  the  German  into  French. 
2  vols.  8vo.    Berne.     1780. 

Voltaire,  a  Collection  of  Curious  Particu- 
lars of  his  Life  and  Death.  By  Father 
Elie  Ilarel.  8vo,  148  pages.  Porentruy. 
1780. 

Reflections  upon  the  Eulogy  upon  M.  de 
Voltaire,  by  D'Alembert,  pronounced  by 
himself  May  4,  1779,  in  the  presence  of 
the  whole  Academy.  By  J.  de  S.  Val- 
lier.     8vo.     Frankfort.     1780. 

A  Letter  to  M.  Mercier,  Abbe  of  St.  L^ger, 
upon  the  Contention  between  Voltaire 
and  Saint-Hyacinthe,  in  which  will  be 
found  some  literary  Anecdotes  and  Let- 
ters  of  Voltaire  and  Saint-Hyaciathe. 
By  J.  L.  de  Burigny.  Pamphlet.  Lon- 
don and  Paris.     1780. 

Remarks  upon  Voltaire's  Commentary  upon 
Montesquieu's  Spirit  of  the  Laws.  By 
C.  I.  Pallzow.     Berlin.     1780. 

The  Henriade  Avenged,  with  the  Reply  of 


APPENDIX. 


625 


M.  B.  (J.  Bidault)  to  each  of  the  Objec- 
tions in  La  Beaumelle's  Commentary ; 
the  Preface  of  Frederic  the  Great,  King 
of  Prussia ;  the  Essay  upon  Epic  Poetry, 
translated  from  the  English  by  the  Abbd 
Desfontaines ;  a  Supplement  to  that  Es- 
say ;  an  Article  upon  the  subject  of  He- 
-p  siod;  another  concerning  Ariosto;  the 
Judgments  of  Contemporaries  upon  the 
Poem;  a  Relation  of  the  Honors  which 
were  paid  to  Voltaire  at  Paris  in  1778; 
and  several  other  Fragments  relating  to 
Voltaire.  Collected  and  edited  by  M.  de 
Chateaulion.  12mo.  Berlin  and  Paris. 
1780. 
The  Veritable    Muses,    a  Medley  in    six 

scenes.     Paris.     1781. 
The  Vengeance  of  Pluto,  or  a  Sequel  to  the 
Rival  Muses,  a  Comedy  in  one  act  and  in 
prose,  followed  by  detached  pieces.     By 
Cubieres.     8vo,  62   pages.    Paris.  1781. 
Eulogy  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  an  Ode  which 
competed  for  the   prize  at   the  French 
Academy.    By  L.  de  la  Vicomterie ;  fol- 
lowed by  a  Letter  from  the  King  of  Prus- 
sia  to   the   Author.     Pamphlet.     Ham- 
burg.    1782. 
Voltaire  and    the  Serf  of   Mount  Jura,  a 
Discourse  in  Easy  Verses,  crowned  by 
the  French  Academy  in   1782.     By  the 
Chevalier    de    Florian.      Pamphlet,    14 
pages.    Paris.     1782. 
The  Authenticity  of  the  Books  both  of  the 
New  and  the  Old  Testament,  and  their 
Truth  defended;    or  Refutation   of   the 
"Bible  at  Length  Explained"'  of  Vol- 
taire.   By  the  Abbe  J.  G.   Clemence, 
Canon  of  Rouen.     1  vol.    8vo.     Paris. 
1782. 
A  Discourse  in  Verse  in  praise  of  M.  de 
Voltaire,  followed  by  some  other  Poems 
by  the    JIarquis  de  Ximente,  and   pre- 
ceded by  a  Letter  from  M.  de  Voltaire  to 
the  Author.     Pamphlet.     Paris.     1784. 
Tragedy,  a  Sequel  to  the  Nine  Letters  to 
Voltaire   by  Clement  of  Dijon.     Paris. 
1784. 
Voltaire  Triumphant,  or  the  Priests  Fallen, 
a  Tragi-Comed\'  in  one  act  and  in  prose. 
Attributed  to  Anacharsis  Clootz.     Pam- 
phlet, 30  pages.     Paris.     1784. 
Private  Life  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  or 
Memoirs  to  serve  for  the  history  of  Vol- 
taire.    12mo.    Amsterdam.     1785. 
VOL.  I.  40 


Memoirs  to  serve  for  the  History  of  Vol- 
taire,  in  which  will  be  found  various  ■■ — 
Writings  by  him  little  known.  12mo. 
Amsterdam.  1785. 
Historical  and  Critical  Memoirs  of  the  Life 
and  Writings  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  2  vols. 
8vo.  By  Dom  Chaudon.  Paris.  1785. 
Dialogue  between  Voltaire  and  Fontenelle. 

By  Rivarol.     8vo.     Paris.     1785. 
Defense  of  Voltaire  (against  La  Harpe). 
By  J.  E.  I'HospitaL    Pamphlet.     Lon- 
don.    1786. 
The  Life  of  Voltaire.    By  the  Abb6  Du- 

vemet.    Geneva.    1786. 
Life  of  Voltaire.    By  the  Marquis  de  Lu- 

chet.     12nio.     Geneva.     1786. 
Decline  of  Letters  and  Manners  since  the 
Greeks  and  Romans  (attributed  chiefly 
to  Voltaire  and  to  the  excessive  Develop- 
ment of  light  Literature).  By  J.  A.  R.  de 
Juvigny.     12mo.     Paris.     1787. 
Eulogy  of  Marie-Frangois  de  Voltaire,  fol- 
lowed by  Notes,  instructive  and  edifying. 
By   M.    M.    Ecrlinf.      80    pages,    Svo. 
Paris.     1788. 
Tantalus   at  Law,   a  Comedy  in  one  act. 
and     in    prose    (upon    Voltaire    versus 
Ilirsch  and  Son,  of  Berlin).     Attributed 
to  Frederic  H.  of  Prussia.  Berlin.  1788. 
Eulogy  of  Voltaire,   which  competed  for 
the  prize  offered  by  the   French  Acad- 
emj'.  By  Mademoiselle  de  Gaudin.  Svo. 
Paris.     1789. 
Analyses  and  Criticisms  of  the  Works  of 
Voltaire,  with  several  Anecdotes,  inter- 
esting and  little  known,  concerning  him, 
from  1762  to  his  death.      Svo.    Kehl. 
1789. 
Frederic  H.,  J.  J.  Rousseau,  D'Alembert, 
and  the  Academy  of   Berlin  defended 
from   the   Secretary  of    that   Academy. 
By  J.  C.  Laveaux.    Svo.     Paris.    1789. 
Voltaire   to   the   French   upon   their  Con- 
stitution. By  M.  Lava.  Pamphlet.  Paris, 
1789. 
Life  of  Voltaire.     By  M.   de    Condorcct. 
Followed  by   the   Memoirs   of  Voltaire,       ^ 
written  by  himself.     2  vtrts.  16mo.     Ge-        -- 
neva,  1787,  and  Berlin,  1791. 
Anti-Voltaire,  or  Remarks  upon  Religion. 

2  vols.  Svo.     Berne.     1791. 
The  Response  of  a  Friend  of  Great  Men  to 
those    who    are    envious    of    Voltaire's 
Glory.  Pamphlet,  15  pages.  Paris.  1791. 


626 


LIFE  OF   VOLTAIRE. 


The   Widow  Calas  at  Paris,   or  the   Tri- 
umph of  Voltaire.     A  drama  in  one  act 
and  in  prose.    By  J.  B.  Pujoulx.    Paris. 
1791. 
The  Beneficence  of  Voltaire,  a  drama  in  one 
act  and  in  verse.     By  W.  d'Abancourt. 
Represented  for  the  first  time  at  the  The- 
atre of  the  Nation,  May  30,  1791.  Paris. 
1791. 
A  True  Eulogy  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  one  of 
the  great  men  of  the  nation  who  repose 
in  the   Temple  of  Memory.    55  pages, 
8vo.     Paris.     1791. 
The  Apotheosis  of  Voltaire  and  that  of  the 
Great  Men  of  France  proposed  on  the  same 
day,  by  placing  their  busts  by  the  side  of 
their  ashes.     Pamphlet.     Paris.     1791. 
An  Exact  and  Circumstantial  Detail  of  all 
the  Mattei-s  relating  to  the  Festival  of 
Voltaire,  extracted  from  the  Chronique 
de  Paris.     Pamphlet.     Paris.     1791. 
The  Translation  of  Voltaire  to  Paris,  and 
Details  of  the  Ceremony  which  is  to  take 
place  oji  the  Fourth  of  July.    Pamphlet. 
Paris.     1791. 
Literary  History  of  Voltaire,   containing 
his  literary  and  private  Life,  Anecdotes, 
and  Successes  of  each  of  his  works,  with 
Details  of  the  Honors  which  he  obtained 
during  his   life,  and   those  which  were 
decreed  to  him  at  the  Temple  of  great 
Men.     By  the   Marquis   de   Luchet.     6 
vols.     8vo.    Paris.     1792. 
Doubts    upon    the    Revealed    Religions, 
addressed   to   Voltaire.     By   Emilie  du 
Chatelet.     A  posthumous   work.     8vo, 
72  pages.     Paris.     1792. 
Voltaire   in   the  Shades,  or  Dialogues  on 
the  Deistical  Controversy.      Poems  and 
a  Tragedy.    By  W.  J.  Mickle.     1  vol. 
4to.     London.     1794. 
Life  of  M.  de  Voltaire.     By  the  Abbe.  T. 
J.  Duvernet.     Svo.     Geneva,  1786,  and 
Paris,  1798. 
The    Spirit  of  Voltaire  as   shown  by  his 
writings.     By  the  Abb6  C.  F.  Nonnotte. 
12rao.     Paris.     1799. 
New    Lights    on    Jacobinism,    abstracted 
from    Robinson's    History  of    Freema- 
sonry; with  an  Appendix  containing  an 
Account  of  Voltaire's   Behavior  on  his 
death-bed,    and    a   Letter    from  J.    H. 
Stone  (who  was  tried  for  sedition)  to  his 
friend  Dr.  Priestley,  disclosing  the  prin- 


ciples of  Jacobinism.    1  vol.    Svo.    Lon- 
don.   1799. 

Voltaire,  or  a  Day  at  Ferney.  A  Vaude- 
ville in  two  acts.     Paris.     1802. 

Errors  of  Voltaire  in  Metaphysics.  Svo. 
By  Father  J.  B.  Aubry.  Commercy. 
1802. 

Evenings  at  Ferney,  or  Confidences  of 
Voltaire,  gathered  by  a  Friend  of  that 
great  Man  (S.  Desprf^'aux).  8vo.  Paris. 
1802. 

An  Evening  with  two  Prisoners,  or  Vol- 
taire and  Richelieu.  A  Vaudeville.  By 
D.  and  Z.     Paris.     1803. 

Report  made  to  the  Society  of  Science  and 
Literature  of  Montpellier  upon  the  Inau- 
guration of  the  Statue  of  Voltaire  in  the 
Museum  of  the  same  City.  By  Mar- 
tin Choisy.  Pamphlet.  Montpellier. 
1803. 

Refutations  of  some  False  Assertions  of 
Voltaire  and  other  Philosophers  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century  concerning  the  Holy 

Scriptures.     By   the    Abb6   ,    Svo. 

Paris.     1804. 

On  the  Philosophy  of  the  Henriade.  By 
M.  Tabaraud,  former  priest  of  the  Ora- 
tory.   Paris.     1805. 

Voltairiana,  in  four  volumes.  Selected  and 
translated  from  the  French  by  Mary 
Julia  Young.     16mo.     London.     1805. 

Unpublished  Letters  of  La  Marquise  du 
Chatelet  and  the  Comte  d'Argental.  1 
vol.  Svo.     Paris.     1806. 

The  Genius  of  Voltaire  appreciated  in  all 
his  works.  By  Charles  Palissot.  12mo. 
Paris.     1806. 

Voltaire  at  the  House  of  Ninon,  a  Vaude- 
ville in  one  act  and  in  prose.  By  Mo- 
reau  and  La  Fortelle.     Paris.     1806. 

Response  of  Voltaire  to  M.  J.  Ch^nier. 
By  A.  d'Aldequier.     Paris.     1806. 

Boniface  Carr^,  or  the  Coat  of  Voltaire. 
A  Vaudeville  in  one  act.     Paris.     1806. 

My  Residence  with  Voltaire,  and  Unpub- 
lished Letters  written  to  me  by  that 
celebrated  Man  do-\vn  to  the  last  year 
of  his  life.  1  vol.  12mo.  By  Come 
Alexander  Collini.     Paris.     1807. 

The  Infidel  and  Christian  Philosophers,  or 
the  Last  Hours  of  Voltaire  and  Addison 
contrasted.  A  poem.  4to.  London. 
1807. 

Voltaire,  or  the  Triumph  of  Modem  Phi- 


APPENDIX. 


627 


losophy.  A  Poem  in  eight  cantos,  with 
an  Epilogue ;  followed  by  various  Pieces 
in  verse  and  in  prose.  By  J.  Berchoux. 
1  vol.  8vo.     Lyons.     1814. 

Commentary  upon  the  Drama  of  Voltaire. 
By  La  Harpe.  Printed  after  the  auto- 
graph manuscript  of  that  celebrated  critic. 
Collected  and  published  by  M.  Decroix. 
1  vol.  8vo.     Paris.     1814. 

The  Voltairiade,  or  Adventures  of  Voltaire 
in  the  other  World,  occasioned  by  an 
event  which  happened  in  this.  By  M. 
J.  Grambert.  8vo.  96  pages.  Paris. 
1815  and  1825. 

Parallel  between  the  Literary  Life  of  J.  J. 
Rousseau  and  Voltaire.  By  A.  Val- 
secchi.    Pamphlet.     Venice.     1816. 

The  Philosophy  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 
unveiled  by  itself,  a  Work  addressed  to 
Fathers  of  Families,  and  to  Christian  In- 
structors, followed  by  observations  upon 
the  Notes  with  which  Voltaire  and  Con- 
dorcet  have  accompanied  the  Thoughts 
of  Pascal.  By  Gourjui.  2  vols.  8vo. 
Paris.     1816. 

Voltaire  judged  by  the  Facts.  Anony- 
mous.   8vo.  76  pages.     Paris.     1817. 

The  Political,  Literary,  and  Moral  Life  of 
Voltaire,  in  which  are  refuted  Condorcet 
and  his  other  historians,  by  citing  and 
comparing  a  great  number  of  unknown 
and  very  curious  facts.  By  Lapan. 
8vo.     Paris.     1817,  1819,  and  18.38. 

Voltaire's  Cane  and  Rousseau's  Writ- 
ing-Desk.  A  dialogue  in  verse.  By 
Dc  Montburn.  Pamphlet,  16  pages. 
Paris.     1817. 

Voltaire  and  his  Genius,  his  Arrival  and 
his  Triumph  in  the  other  World,  a 
Drama  in  three  acts  and  in  prose.  A 
posthumous  work  of  the  late  M.  Bros, 
formerly  honorary  Canon  of  Meaux. 
Published  by  M.  Crussaire,  his  testa- 
meutar_v  executor.     Paris.     1817. 

Philosophic  Judgment  upon  Voltaire  and 
J.  J.  Rousseau.  By  H.  Azais.  8vo, 
82  pages.     Paris.     1817. 

Justification  of  the  Works  of  Voltaire  and 
the  Forgiveness  of  his  errors  accorded 
by  Alpha  and  Omega,  a  foreign  Prince 
more  just  than  his  Enemies  newly  ar- 
rived here.  Pamphlet,  8  pages.  Paris. 
1817. 
Uandate  of  Messieurs  the  Vicars-General 


of  the  Diocese  of  Paris  for  the  Lent  of 
1817  (against  a  new  edition  of  the  works 
of  Voltaire  and  of  Rousseau).  8vo. 
Paris.  1817. 

Letter  from  the  Editor  of  the  Complete 
Works  of  Voltaire  to  Messieurs  the 
Vicars-General  of  the  Metropolitan  Chap- 
ter of  Paris  on  the  subject  of  their  last 
mandate.  Pamphlet,  25  pages.  Paris. 
1817. 

Important  Questions  upon  the  New  Edition 
of  the  Complete  Works  of  Voltaire  and 
J.  J.  Rousseau.  B3'  the  Abbe  C.  de 
Montals.  Pamphlet,  48  pages.  Paris. 
1817. 

Still  some  Words  upon  Voltaire,  a  little 
Letter  upon  a  great  Subject.  Pamphlet, 
14  pages.     Paris.     1817. 

Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  or  the  Trial  of  the 
Day.  By  R.  Bazin.  Pamphlet.  Paris. 
1817. 

Voltaire,  J.  J.  Rousseau,  and  Montesquieu. 
Pamphlet.     Paris.     1817. 

A  Philosophic  Judgment  concerning  Jean 
Baptiste  Rousseau  and  Voltaire.  By  H. 
Azais.     82  pages,  8vo.     Paris.     1817. 

An  Epistle  from  Voltaire  to  M.  Beuchot, 
one  of  his  editors.  Pamphlet,  8  pages. 
Paris.    1817. 

Reflections  upon  the  Two  Editions  of  the 
Complete  Works  of  Voltaire.  8vo.  64 
pages.     Paris.    1817. 

Two  Words  to  the  Constitutionnel  and  one 
Word  to  the  Mercury  on  the  Subject  of 
the  new  Editions  of  the  Complete  Works 
of  Voltaire,  and  with  regard  to  Philoso- 
phy and  the  Philosophers.  By  M.  G.  J. 
M.     Pamphlet,  40  pages.     Paris.     1817. 

Researches  concerning  the  Works  of  Vol- 
taire, containing:  (1)  general  reflections 
upon  his  writings;  (2)  a  notice  with  ex- 
planations of  the  different  editions  of  his 
works,  select  or  complete,  from  1732  to 
this  day;  (3)  the  detail  of  the  judicial 
condenmations  which  most  of  those 
writings  have  incurred;  and  (4)  ac- 
counts of  the  principal  works  in  which 
his  dangerous  principles  have  been  com- 
bated. Bv  J.  J.  E.  G.,  advocate.  Pam- 
phlet,  78  pages.     Dijon.     1817. 

Literary  and  Philosophical  History  of  Vol- 
taire.   12mo.    By  R.  J.  Durdent.    Paris. 
1818. 
An  Epistle  from  Voltaire  to  the  numerous 


628 


LIFE  OF   VOLTAIRE. 


Editors  of  his  Complete  Works,  with 
Notes  aud  Documents.  Pamphlet,  20 
pages.     Paris.     1818. 

A  Letter  Philosophical,  Political,  and  Lit- 
erary, from  Voltaire  to  the  French. 
Published  by  E.  B.  D.  M.  Bvo.  56 
pages.     Paris.     1818. 

The  Sirven  Family,  or  Voltaire  at  Castres. 
A  Melodrama  in  three  acts.  By  F.  Du- 
petit-Mer6  and  J.'  B.  Dubois.  Paris. 
1820. 

Philosophical  Observations  upon  the  Phil- 
osophical Dictionary  of  Voltaire.  By 
G.  Feydel.  Part  I.  12mo,  48  pages. 
Paris.     1820. 

Private  Life  of  Voltaire  and  Madame  du 
Chatelet,  during  a  Sojourn  of  six  Months 
at  Cirey.  By  the  Author  of  the  Peru- 
vian Letters  (Madame  de  Grafigny),  fol- 
lowed by  Fifty  Unpublished  Letters  in 
verse  and  in  prose  of  Voltaire.  1  vol. 
Bvo.     Paris.     1820. 

The  Pastoral  Address  of  Monseigneur  the 
Bishop  of  Troves,  upon  the  Printing  of 
bad  Books,  and  particularly  upon  the 
Complete  Works  of  Voltaire  and  Rous- 
seau. Pamphlet,  76  pages.  Paris,  Ly- 
ons, and  Toulouse.     1821. 

Letter  from  M.  Touquet  to  his  grandeur 
Monseigneur  the  Bishop  of  Troyes,  Arch- 
bishop elect  of  Vienna,  in  reph^  to  his 
Pastoral  Address  against  the  editions  of 
the  Complete  Works  of  Voltaire  and 
J.  J.  Rousseau.  Pamphlet,  48  pages. 
Paris.     1821. 

Letters  to  Madame  Perronneau  and  com- 
pany, relative  to  the  edition  of  the  Com- 
plete Works  of  Voltaire.  By  M.  Beu- 
chot.     Eleren  letters.     Paris.     1821. 

The  Involuntary  Apologists,  or  the  Chris- 
tian Religion  proved  by  the  wi-itings  of 
the  Philosophers.  By  Father  M.  M^- 
rault.  1  vol.  Bvo.  Paris.  1806  and 
1821. 

Letter  from  M.  Beuchot,  addressed  to  sev- 
eral journals  relative  to  the  Complete 
Works  of  Voltaire  in  50  vols.  12mo. 
Paris.     1821. 

Life  of  Voltaire.  By  M.  F.  A.  J.  M^ 
zure,  Inspector-General  of  Studies.  Bvo. 
Paris.     1821. 

The  Life  of  Voltaire,  with  interesting  Par- 
ticulars concerning  his  Death,  and  An- 
ecdotes and  Characters  of  his  Contempo- 


raries. By  Frank  Hall  Standish,  Esq. 
1  vol.  12mo.     London.     1821. 

Unpublished  Letters  of  Voltaire,  Madame 
Denis,  and  Collini.  1  vol.  12mo.  Paris. 
1821. 

The  Faithful  Catholics  to  the  Bishops  and 
all  the  Pastors  of  the  Church  of  France, 
on  the  subject  of  the  new  editions  of  the 
works  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  Pam- 
phlet, 52  pages.    Paris.     1821. 

Historical  Notice  upon  the  Henriade,  for 
an  edition  of  that  poem,  with  a  Com- 
mentary'. By  Fontanier.  16  pages,  Bvo. 
Rouen.     1822. 

The  Shoemaker  of  Voltaire,  or  the  Flight 
from  Berlin.  A  Comedy  played  at  the 
Varietes.    Paris.     1822. 

Impiety,  or  the  Philosophists.  A  poetical 
essay  in  eight  cantos.  By  Clemcnce. 
Paris,  1821,  and  Lyons,  1823. 

The  Errors  of  Voltaire.  By  the  Abb6  C 
F.  Nonnotte.  2  vols.  12mo.  Avignon. 
1762.  Seventh  edition  of  the  same.  3 
vols.  12mo.    Paris.     1822. 

The  Purification  of  Voltaire,  or  Voltaire 
neutralized  by  Religion  and  Morality. 
Dedicated  to  the  august  shade  of  the 
martyr-king,  Louis  XVI.  By  A.  Hus. 
Bvo,  4  pages.     Paris.     1823. 

Full  Presentation  of  the  Voltaire  Tonquet, 
a  Collection  of  the  Treatises,  Sentences, 
Transactions,  Judgments,  Decrees,  and 
various  Acts  relative  to  that  Operation 
(a  suit  between  publishers).  Quarto, 
104  pages.     Paris.     1823. 

History  of  the  Life  and  Works  of  Voltaire, 
with  Estimates  of  that  celebrated  man 
by  various  esteemed  authors.  By  L.  Pail- 
let  de  Warcy.     2  vols.  Bvo.  Paris.  1824. 

The  Bible  Avenged  from  the  Attacks  of 
Incredulity,  and  justified  from  every 
Reproach  of  its  Inconsistency  with  Rea- 
son, Historical  Monuments,  Natural 
Science,  Geology,  Astronomy.  By  the 
Abb^  J.  F.  Duclot.  6  vols.  Bvo.  Lyons 
and  Paris.     1824. 

Compile,  or  the  Pupil  of  Voltaire.  A  com- 
edy in  one  act  and  in  verse :  new  prey 
of  the  theatrical  censorship.  By  T. 
Princeteau.     Lyons.     1825. 

Voltaire  as  an  Apologist  of  the  Christian 
Religion.  By  the  author  of  the  Invol- 
untary Apologists  (the  Abb(5  Merault). 
1  vol.  8vo.    Paris.    1826. 


APPENDIX. 


629 


An  Epistle  to  Voltaire  in  verse.  By  M. 
J.  Chenier.     Paris.     1806  and  1820. 

Voltaire  and  a  Jesuit.  A  Dialogue  in 
verse.  By  C!onstant  Taillard.  32mo, 
32  pages.     Paris.     1826. 

Memoirs  relating  to  Voltaire  and  his 
Works.  By  Longchamp  and  Wagnifere, 
his  Secretaries.  Followed  by  various  un- 
published Writings  of  the  Marquise  du 
Chatelet,  Renault,  Piron,  D'Arnaud, 
Thieriot,  and  others,  all  relating  to  Vol- 
taire.   2  vols.     12mo.     Paris.     1820. 

Examination  of  the  Works  of  Voltaire 
considered  as  Poet,  as  Prose  Writer,  as 
Philosopher.  By  Linquet.  Svo.  Paris. 
1827. 

An  Epistle  to  Voltaire  upon  the  Present 
Government.  By  Horace .  Pam- 
phlet, 16  pages.     Paris.     1828. 

Voltaire  among  the  Capuchins.  A  Com- 
edy in  one  Act  and  in  Prose,  with  Songs. 
By  Dumersan  and  Dupin.     Paris.    18J0. 

An  Epistle  to  Voltaire  in  Verse.  By  La- 
croix.  Pamphlet,  4  pages.  Bordeaux. 
1831. 

Voltaire  at  Frankfort.  An  Anecdotical 
Comedy  in  one  Act  and  in  Prose,  with 
Songs.  By  Ourry  and  Brazier.  Paris. 
1831. 

Madame  du  Chatelet,  or  No  To-JIorrow. 

■  A  Comedy  in  one  Act  and  in  Prose,  with 
Songs  intermingled.  By  Ancelot  and 
Gustave.     Paris.     1832. 

A  Breakfast  at  Ferney  in  1765,  or  the 
Widow  Galas  at  the  Home  of  Voltaire. 
A  Dramatic  Sketch  in  one  Act  and  in 
Verse.  By  Alexandre  Duvoisin-Calas. 
Gustave.     Paris.     1832. 

Voltaire  and  Madame  de  Pompadour.  A 
Comedy  in  tliree  Acts.  Bj*  J.  B.  P.  La- 
fitte  and  C.  Desnoyer.    Paris.     1833. 

The  Youth  of  Voltaire,  or  the  First  Prize. 
An  Historical  Comedy  in  one  Act,  with 
Couplets  intermixed.  By  Saint-Hilaire. 
18mo,  72  pages.     Paris.     1833. 

The  S!ipper  of  Voltaire.  A  Vaudeville  in 
two  Acts.  By  J.  B.  Simonnin.  Paris. 
1836. 

Voltaire  on  a  Holiday.  A  Vaudeville  in 
two  Acts.  By  De  Villeneuve  and  De 
Livry.     Paris.     1836. 

A  Fugitive  at  the  House  of  Voltaire.  A 
Vaudeville  in  one  Act.  By  Saint-Hilaire 
and  Simonnin.    Paris.    1836. 


The  Secretary  of  Voltaire.  A  Tale.  Ge- 
neva.    1838. 

Voltaire  and  the  French  Revolution.  By 
C.  Nagel.     8vo,  176  pages.     1839. 

The  Housekeeping  and  Finance  of  Vol- 
taire, with  an  Introduction  upon  Court 
and  Drawing-Room  Manners  in  the 
Eighteenth  Century.  By  Louis  Nico- 
lardot.     1  vol.     Svo.     Paris.     1854. 

The  Enemies  of  Voltaire.  By  Charles  Ni- 
sard.     1  vol.     12mo.  Paris.     1853. 

The  Friends  of  Voltaire.  By  H.  Julia.  1 
vol.  12mo.     Paris.    1854. 

Unpublished  Letters  of  Voltaire,  collected 
by  M.  de  Cayrol,  annotated  by  Alphonse 
Fran9ois,  with  a  Preface  by  Saint-Marc 
Girardin.    2  vols.    Svo.     Paris.     1857. 

Voltaire  and  the  People  of  Geneva.  By 
J.  Gaberel,  former  pastor.  1  vol.  12mo. 
Paris.     1857. 

Voltaire  and  the  President  de  Brosses,  Un- 
published Correspondence.  By  Th.  Fois- 
set.     1  vol.  12mo.    Paris.     1858. 

The  Philosophy  of  Voltaire.  By  Ernest 
Bersot.     1  vol.  12mo.     Paris.     1858. 

Jean  Calas  and  his  Family.  An  Historic 
Study  from  Original  Documents.  By 
Athanase  Coquerel,  Juu.,  Pastor  of  the 
Reformed  Church.  1  vol.  12rao.  Paris. 
1858. 

Voltairian  Catalogue.  A  List  of  Works  by 
and  relating  to  Voltaire.  Svo.  184  pages. 
By  J.  M.  Querard.     Paris.     1800. 

Voltaire  at  Ferney.  His  Correspondence 
with  the  Duchess  of  Saxe-Gotha.  Col- 
lected and  edited  by  M5L  Evariste,  Ba- 
voux,  and  A.  F.  1  vol.  Svo.  Paris. 
1860. 

Voltaire  and  his  School-Masters.  An  Epi- 
sode of  Classical  Learning  in  France. 
By  Alexis  Pierron.  1vol.  12mo.  Paris. 
1806. 

Voltaire,  his  Life  and  his  Works.  By  the 
Abb^  Maj-nard.  2  vols.  Svo.  Paris. 
1867. 

The'  True  Voltaire,  the  Man  and  the 
Thinker.  By  Edouard  de  Pompery.  A 
Biography.     1  vol.  Svo.     Paris.     1867. 

Voltaire.  1  vol.  12mo.  By  David  Fred- 
erick Strauss.     1870. 

Voltaire.  By  John  Morley.  1  vol.  12mo. 
London.     1872. 

The  True  Letters  of  Voltaire  to  the  Abb4 
Moussinot,  published  for  the  first  time 


630 


LIFE   OF   VOLTAIRE. 


from  the  autographs  in  the  National  Li- 
brary.  By  Courtat.  1  vol.  12mo.   Paris. 
1875. 
Life  and  Times  of  Francois-Marie  Arouet, 
calling   himself    Voltaire.     By  Francis 
Espinasse.  Vol.  1st.  8vo.  London.   1876. 
Voltaire  and  French  Society  in  the  Eight- 
eenth Century.    A  Biography  in  eight 
volumes.     8vo.    By  Gustave  Desnoires- 
terres.     Paris.     1876. 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  and  the  Philosophy 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  1  vol.  12mo. 
By  Henri  Martin.     Paris.     1878. 
Voltaire,  his  Life,  his  Works,  and  the  In- 
fluence of  his  Ideas  upon  Society.    1  vol. 
12mo.     Paris.     1878. 
Voltaire  in  Exile.     His  Life  and  his  Work 
in  France  and  in  Foreign  Lands,   Bel- 
gium, Holland,  Prussia,  England,  Switz- 
erland.     With  Unpublished   Letters   of 
Voltaire  and  Madame  du  Chatelet.     By 
B.  Gastineau.  1  vol.   12mo.  Paris.  1878. 
A  German  Tourist  at  Ferney  in  1775.     By 
P.  Ristelhubor.  1  vol.  16mo.  Paris.  1878. 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau.    By  Eugene  Noel. 

1  vol.  12mo.     Paris.     1878. 
Frederic   II.   and  Voltaire.     Dedicated   to 
the  Centenary  Commission.   1  vol.  12mo. 
Paris.     1878. 
Prayers,  Sermons,  and  Religious  Thoughts. 
Translated  from  the  French  of  Voltaire, 
by  J.  E.  Johnson,  Rector  of   St.  John 
the    Evangelist    Church,    Philadelphia 
1  vol.  16mo.     Philadelphia.     1878. 
Letters  of  Madame   du   Chatelet.    Edited 
by  Eugene  Asse.    1  vol.  12mo.    Paris. 
1878. 
Voltairian  Iconography.    The  History  and 
Description  of  what  was  published  upon 
Voltaire  by  Contemporary  Art.    By  Gus- 
tave Desnoiresterres.  4  parts,  8vo.  Paris. 
1878. 
Voltaire  and  the  Church.    By  the  Abb^ 
Moussinot.    1  vol.    12mo.    Paris.    1878. 
One  Hundred  and  One  Anecdotes  of  Vol- 
taire.      1  vol.  12mo.       By   Gaston   de 
Genonville.     Paris.     1878. 
The  Good  and  the  Evil  which  has  been 
said  of  Voltaire.     By  Maxime  de  Cide- 
ville.    1  vol.  12rao.    Paris.     1878. 
To  Voltaire,  a  Sonetto  (in   Italian),  with 
the  Translation  of  the  same  in  French. 
By  Maron  Antonio  Canini.  8vo,  7  pages. 
Paris.     1878. 


Voltaire  at  Paris.    By  Edouard  Damila- 

ville.    1  vol.     12mo.     Paris.     1878. 
The   Centenary  of  Voltaire   as  celebrated 
by  the  Freemasons  in  Rome.     8vo,  34 
pages.    Rome.    1878. 
Homage  to  Voltaire.    Poem  by  Ch.  More. 

8vo,  1  page.     Paris.     1878. 
Voltaire  in  Prussia.     By  Albert  Thieriot. 

1  vol.  12mo.    Paris.    1878. 
The  Centenary  of  Voltaire,  May  30,  1878. 
Oratorical    Festival,    President,    Victor 
Hugo.     The  Discourses  of  MM.  E.  Spul- 
ler,  Emile  Deschanel,  and  Victor  Hugo. 
32mo,  96  pages.     Paris.     1878. 
The  Centenary  of  Voltaire.     By  B.  Gasti- 
neau.   12mo,  36  pages.    Brussels.    1878. 
To  Voltaire !     A  poem  on  the  Occasion  of 
the  Centenary  of  Voltaire.     By  Ernest 
Calonne.     8vo,  7  pages.    Paris.     1878. 
Voltaire,  Choice  works.    Edition  for  the 
Centenary,  May  30,  1878.     12mo,     1000 
pages.     Paris.     1878. 
Vive  Voltaire !     Vive  Rousseau !    May  30, 
1878.      Poem    by  Attale   du   Cournan. 
16mo,  8  pages.     Paris.     1878. 
The  Centenary  of  Voltaire.     Poem.    By 
A.  Baumann.     Svo,   3    pages.     Lyons. 
1878. 
The  Discourse  for  the  Centenary  of  Vol- 
taire, and  the  Letter  to  the  Bishop  of 
Orleans.    By    Victor   Hugo.     8vo,     24 
pages.    Paris.     1878. 
The  Centenary  of  Voltaire.      Festival   of 
May  30,  1878.    32mo,   4  pages.    Paris. 
1878. 
The  Centenary  of  Voltaire.     Poem.    Svo 

2  pages.     Boulogne.     1878. 
Stanzas  to  Voltaire,  recited  at  the  Tht^atre- 
Fran9ais  of  Bordeaux  on  the  Occasion  of 
the  Centenary.     By  A.   D.     Svo.     Bor- 
deaux.    1878. 
The  Centenary  of  Voltaire.    An  Appeal  to 
the  good  Sense,  to  the  Honor,  and  to  the 
Patriotism  of  Men  of  all  Parties.     4to, 
4  pages.    Nismes.    1878. 
The   Centenary  of  Voltaire.     By  Gf^neral 
Ambert.    4to,     3  pages.     Paris.     1878. 
Voltaire  and  Dupanioup.    Poem.     By  M»- 
rius  Lombard.     4to,     2  pages.     Digne. 
1878. 
The   Centenary  of  Voltaire.    Poem.    By 
Felix  Dubourg.    Svo,  15  pages.    Roche- 
fort.     1878. 
The  Ceutenarv  of  Voltaire.     By  members 


APPENDIX. 


631 


of  the  United  "Workmen  of  St.  Etienne. 
16mo,     8  pages.     St.  Etienne.     1878. 

The  Centenary  of  Voltaire,  followed  by 
the  Soul  of  France.  By  A.  Marquery. 
A  song.     16mo,  4  pages.     Paris.     1878. 

The  Centenaiy  of  Voltaire.  4to,  2  pages. 
Marseilles.     1878. 

The  Centenar}'  of  Voltaire  in  France. 
32mo.     Paris.     1878. 

Historic  Gallery  of  the  Actors  in  the  Com- 
pany of  Voltaire.  With  portraits  on 
steel.  8vo,  2d  edition.  Kecast  and  aug- 
mented.  By  E.  de  Maune.   Lyons.  1878. 


The  Head  of  Voltaire.  A  comedy  in  one 
act.  By  Vibert  and  Tochi5.  Produced 
at  the  Theatre  de  Nouveaut^a.  Paris. 
1879. 

Voltaire  ■with  Houdon.  A  comedy  in  one 
act  and  in  verse.  By  Georges  Duval. 
Paris.     1880. 

The  Folly-Book  (Sottisier)  of  Voltaire. 
From  the  manuscripts  in  his  Library 
at  Petersburg.  1  vol.  8vo.  Paris. 
1880. 

Life  of  Voltaire.  2  vols.  8vo.  By  Jamea 
Partoa.    Boston.    1881. 


APPENDIX  II. 


A  LIST  OF  THE  WORKS   OF  VOLTAIRE, 

IN  THE  ORDER,  SO  FAR  AS  KNOWN,  OF  THEIR  PUBLICATION,  WITH  THE  TITLES  TRANS- 
LATED  INTO   ENGLISH. 


1706.  Aged  12.  Epistle  to  the  Dau- 
phin, the  only  son  of  Louis  XIV.,  ou 
behalf  of  an  invalid  soldier.  In  verse. 
20  lines.     Written  at  school. 

1709.  Aged  15.  Tkanslation  of  an 
Ode  in  Latin,  by  Father  Lejay, 
UPON  St.  Genevieve.  5  pages.  Writ- 
ten at  school,  where  Lejay  was  professor 
of  rhetoric. 

1712.  Aged  18.  Ode  upon  the  Vow  of 
Louis  XIII.  to  rebuild  the  Choik  of 
Notre  Dame.  104  lines.  Written  for 
a  prize  offered  by  the  French  Academy 
for  the  best  poem  upon  The  Piety  and 
Magnificence  of  the  King  [Louis  XIV.] 
in  the  Decoration  of  the  Choir  of  the 
Church  of  Notre  Dame,  for  the  Accom- 
plishment of  the  Vow  of  Louis  XIII. 

1713.  Aged  19.  Epistle  to  the  Count- 
ess de  Fontaines,  upon  her  romance 
of  the  Countess  of  Savoy.  A  compli- 
ment in  verse.     34  lines. 

1714.  Aged  20.  The  Anti-Giton.  A 
compliment  in  verse  to  Madame  Lecouv- 
reur.    74  lines. 

1716.  Aged  22.  The  Padlock.  A 
comic  tale  in  verse.     83  lines. 

Epistle  to  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  Re- 
gent OF  France.  Eulogy,  written  in 
exile  to  mollify  the  ruler  of  France.  106 
lines. 

1717.  Aged  23.  The  Bastille.  A  poem 
relating  his  arrest  and  his  arrival  at  the 
Bastille.     88  lines. 

1718.  Aged  24.  (Edipe.  A  tragedy  in 
five  acts  and  in  verse. 

1719.  Aged  25.  Letters  to  M.  de 
Genonville.    Seven  letters  upon  the 


ffidipes   of    Sophocles,     Comeille,    and 
Voltaire.     61  pages. 
1720.    Aged  26.    Art^mire.    A  tragedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

1722.  Aged  28.  For  and  Against,  or 
an  Epistle  to  Uranie.  A  poem  written 
in  answer  to  Madame  de  Rupelmonde's 
question,  what  she  ought  to  think  con- 
cerning religion.     133  lines. 

1723.  Aged  29.  La  Henriade,  or  the 
Poem  of  the  League.    Epic  in  ten  cantos. 

1724.  Aged  30.  Mariamne.  A  tragedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

1725.  Aged  31.  The  Festival  of  Bel^- 
BAT.  A  dramatic  divertisement  in  one 
act  and  in  verse.    495  lines. 

The  Babbler.  A  comedy  in  one  act  and 
in  verse. 

1727.  Aged  33.  Essay  upon  Epic  Po- 
etry. Written  in  English ;  afterwards 
translated  into  French  by  the  author, 
with  corrections  and  additions.  104 
pages. 

Brutus.  A'  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  in 
verse;  published  first  in  London,  repub- 
lished and  performed  in  Paris. 

1730.  Aged  36.  The  Death  of  Ma- 
demoiselle Lecouvreur.  a  poem  re- 
monstrating against  the  French  law  re- 
fusing burial  in  consecrated  ground  to 
actors.     56  lines. 

1731.  Aged  37.    History  of  Charles  i 
XII.,  King  of  Sweden.    Two  volumes, 
octavo. 

The  Death*  of  Caesar.  A  tragedy  in 
three  acts  and  in  verse. 

1732.  Aged  38.  jfenYPHiLE.  A  tragedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 


I 


APPENDIX. 


633 


Zaire.  A  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  in 
verse. 

Samson.  An  opera  in  five  acts  and  in 
verse. 

The  Temple  of  Fuiexdshif.  A  satir- 
ical poem.     119  lines. 

1733.  Aged  39.  Philosophic  Letteus. 
A  series  of  twenty-four  letters  describ- 
ing men  and  things  in  England,  pub- 
lished both  in  France  and  in  Eng- 
land. 

The  Temple  of  the  Taste.  A  satirical 
poem  in  the  spirit  of  Pope's  Dunciad, 
reflecting  upon  the  authors  of  the  day 
hostile  to  Voltaire.  32  pages  of  mingled 
prose  and  verse. 

1734.  Aged  40.  Adelaide  Duguescun. 
A  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Discouhses  upon  Man,  in  verse:  (1.) 
Upon  Equality  of  Conditions.  (2.)  Lib- 
erty. (3.)  Envy.  About  140  lines 
each. 

The  Campaign  in  Italy  in  1734.  A 
poem  of  64  lines,  after  the  manner  of  a 
poet-laureate  of  that  day. 

Treatise  upon  Metaphysics.  A  chatty 
discourse  upon  man,  his  origin,  destiny, 
and  duty,  such  as  one  man  of  the  world 
might  give  to  another.    75  pages. 

1735.  Aged  41.  Tamis  and  Zi5lide,  or 
THE  Shepheko  Kings.  An  opera  in 
five  acts  and  in  verse. 

1736.  Aged  42.  Alzire,  or  the  Amer- 
icans. A  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  in 
verse. 

The  PiiODiGAL  Son.     A  comedy  in  five 

acts  and  in  verse. 
The  Worldling  {Mondain).    A  satire  in 

verse.     130  lines. 

1737.  Aged  43.  Discourses  upon  Man, 
in  verse:  (1.)  Upon  Moderation.  (2.) 
The  Nature  of  Pleasure.  (3.)  The  Nat- 
ure of  Man.  (4.)  True  Virtue.  About 
150  lines  each. 

Advice  to  a  Journalist.  A  pamphlet 
of  50  pages,  giving  advice  to  a  person 
about  to  establisli  a  literary  periodical. 

[1738.  Aged  44.  Elements  of  the  Phi- 
losophy OF  Newton.  A  volume  of  400 
pages,  giving  a  popular  account  of  the 
Truths  demonstrated  in  Newton's  Prin- 
cipia,  a  work  in  which  Voltaire  was  as- 
sisted by  Madame  du  Chatclet. 
Essay  upon  the  Nature  of  Fire  and 


its  Pro  vacation.     A  Prize  Essay  of 
80  pages. 

Notice  of  a  Work  upon  Natural 
Philosophy,  by  Madasie  du  Chate- 
let.  An  extensive  Review  of  her  In- 
stitutions Physiques. 

Observations  upon  J.  Law,  Melon,. 
AND  DuTOT,  etc.  A  pamphlet  of  30 
pages  upon  some  errors  of  political  econ- 
omists. 

The  Preservative.  A  pamphlet  of  25 
pages,  against  the  journalist  Desfon- 
taines. 

Remarks  upon  Pascal's  Thoughts. 
A  work  of  116  pages,  among  the  most 
characteristic  of  all  Voltaire's  writings  in 
prose. 

Advice  to  M.  Helvetius.  Twelve  rules 
for  the  guidance  of  a  young  author,  both 
as  to  the  choice  of  a  subject  and  its  treat- 
ment. 

1739.  Aged  45.  Discourse  irpoN  the 
History  of  Charles  XIL  Now 
printed  as  a  preface  to  that  work. 

Defense  of  Newtonism.  A  pamphlet 
of  30  pages  in  reply  to  objections. 

Memoir  upon  Satire.  A  pamphlet  of  30 
pages  upon  the  quarrels  of  authors  and 
his  own. 

Life  of  Moli^re.  For  an  edition  of  the 
works  of  Moli^re.  70  pages  of  biog- 
raphy and  criticism. 

1740.  Aged  4G.  Zulime.  A  tragedy  in 
five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Pandore.  An  opera  in  five  acts  and  in 
verse. 

Preface  and  Extract  from  the  An- 
ti-Machiavelli  of  Frederic  II.  of 
Prussia.  Sent  to  the  gazettes  by  Vol- 
taire to  promote  the  circulation  of  Fred- 
eric's work.     15  pages. 

Short  Answer  to  the  long  Discourses 
OF  a  German  Doctor.  A  defense  of 
Newton  against  an  adherent  of  Leibnitz. 

1741.  Aged  47.  Doubts  concerning 
THE  Measurement  of  Moving 
Forces.  An  essay  presented  to  the 
Academy'  of  Sciences. 

A  Useful  Examination  of  the  last 
Three  Epistles  of  J.  B.  Rousseau. 
Adverse  criticism,  7  pages. 

1742.  Aged  48.  Fanaticism,  or  Ma- 
homet the  Prophet.  A  tragedy  in 
five  acts  and  iu  verse. 


634 


LITE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 


Advice  to  M.  Racine.  Criticism  of  La 
Religion,  a  poem  by  the  son  of  Racine. 

1743.  Aged  49.  M^rope.  A  tragedy  in 
five  acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Police  under  Louis  XIV.  A  poem 
of  128  lines  on  the  duty  of  kings. 

1744.  Aged  50.  Narrative  touching 
A  White  Moor.  Description  of  au 
albino  exhibited  at  Paris. 

The  Events  of  the  Year  1744.  A  lau- 
reate poem  in  praise  of  Louis  XV. 
94  lines. 

Cosi  Sancta.  a  tale  written  to  oblige  the 
Duchess  du  Maine,  who  had  to  produce 
a  tale  for  a  forfeit.     10  pages. 

1745.  Aged  51.  The  Princess  of  Na- 
varre. A  spectacular  comedy  in  three 
acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Temple  OF  Glory.    An  opera  in  five 

acts  and  in  verse. 
The  Poem  of  Fontenoi.      Written  to 

celebrate  the  victory  at  Fontenoy.     324 

lines. 

1746.  Aged  52.  A  Dissertation  upon 
the  Changes  which  have  occurred 
IN  OUR  Globe.  Written  originally  in 
Italian.    20  pages. 

Discourse  at  his  Reception  into  the 

French  Academy. 
The  World  as  it  goes,  or  the  Vision 

of   Babouc.      a   burlesque   romance. 

25  pages. 
Manifesto  of  the  King  of  France  in 

favor  of  Prince  Charles  Edward. 

For  publication  in  Scotland. 
History  of  the  War  of  1741.     After- 
wards   incorporated    with    The   Age   of 

Louis  XV.     Two  volumes. 

1747.  Aged  53.  The  Prude.  A  comedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Memnon,  or  Human  Wisdom.  A  bur- 
lesque romance.     10  pages. 

History  of  the  Travels  of  Scar- 
mentado.  a  burlesque  romance.  14 
pages. 

1748.  Aged  54.  SiSmieamis.  A  tragedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Panegyric  upon  Louis  XV.  A  laureate 
eulogy  in  prose.     25  pages. 

Eulogium  upon  the  Officers  killed 
IN  THE  War  of  174L  Prose.  25 
pages. 

Zadig,  or  Destiny.  A  burlesque  ro- 
mance.    110  pages. 


1749.  Aged  55.  Nanine.  A  comedy  in 
three  acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Woman  in  the  Right.    A  comedy 

in  three  acts  and  in  verse. 
The   Embellishments    of  Paris.    An 

ingenious   plea  for  improving  the  city. 

14  pages. 

Beauties  and  Faults  of  Poetry  and 
Eloquence  in  the  French  Lan- 
guage. A  treatise  upon  rhetoric,  with 
numerous  examples.     170  pages. 

Panegyric  upon  St.  Louis.  Prose. 
22  pages. 

1750.  Aged  56.  Oreste.  A  tragedy  in 
five  acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Duke  of  Alencon,  or  the  Hos- 
tile Brothers.  A  tragedy  in  three 
acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Voice  of  the  Sage  and  of 
the  People.  Against  the  union  of 
church  and  state.     Pamphlet.     8  pages. 

A  Sincere  Thank -Offering  to  a 
Charitable  Man.  A  defense  of  Mon- 
tesquieu against  a  religious  newspaper. 
7  pages. 

A  Journey  to  Berlin.  Comic  nar- 
rative in  mingled  prose  and  verse.  7 
pages. 

1752.  Aged  58.  The  Duke  of  Foix. 
A  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Rome  Saved.  A  tragedy  in  five  acts 
and  in  verse. 

The  Age  of  Louis  XIV.  A  history  in 
three  volumes.  '^ 

Defense  of  Lord  Bolingbroke.  A 
pamphlet  defending  Bolingbroke  against 
Leland  and  others.     12  pages. 

The  Diatribe  of  Doctor  Akakia.  Bur- 
lesque of  Maupertuis.  Pamplilet.  50 
pages. 

MiCROM^GAS.  A  burlesque  romance. 
25  pages. 

Fragment  of  Instructions    for  the 

Prince  Royal  of  .    Satire  of 

the  abuses  in  the   French  government. 

15  pages. 

The  Tomb  of  the  Sorbonne.  A  de- 
fense of  Abb6  de  Prades.     20  pages. 

1753.  Aged  59.  Doubts  upon  some 
points  in  the  History  of  the  Em- 
pire.    7  pages. 

Thoughts  upon  the  Public  Adminis- 
tration.   Detached    paragraphs    upon 
I      government.    16  pages. 


APPENDIX. 


635 


V 1754.    Aged  60.    The  Annals   of  the 

Empire.     A  history  in  two  volumes. 
Historic  Eulogy  op  Madame  du  Cha- 

TELET.    Printed    as  a    preface   to    her 

translation  of  Newton's    Principia.     14 

pages. 
1755.    Aged  61.    The  Maid  (ZaPucc/^e). 

A  burles(iue  poem  upon  Jeanne  Dare,  in 

21  cantos. 
The  Okphan  of  China.    A  tragedy  in 

five  acts  and  in  verse. 
^^1756.    Aged  62.    Essay  upon  the  JIan- 

/^NEHS  AND  THE  SpIKIT  OF  THE  NATIONS, 
FROM     THE     TIME     OF    CHARLEMAGNE. 

A  work  upon  the  philosophy  of  history, 
in  five  volumes. 

The  Lisbon  Earthquake.  A  poem.  2.34 
lines. 

Natural  Law.  A  poem  upon  natural  re- 
ligion in  four  parts. 

Request  to  all  the  Magistrates  of 
the  Kingdom.  Against  compulsory  fes- 
tivals and  fasts.     11  pages. 

1757.  Aged  63.  Articles  for  the  En- 
CYCLOP/EDiA.  Now  printed  in  the 
Philosophical  Dictionary. 

1758.  Aged  04.  Refutation  of  a  piece 
AGAINST  JL  Saurin.  A  Warm  defense 
of  bis  old  tutor.    7  pages. 

Candide,  or  Optimism.  A  burlesque  ro- 
mance.    46  pages. 

The  Poor  Devil.  A  satirical  poem,  420 
lines,  against  the  enemies  of  the  Ency- 
clopaedia. 

1759.  Aged  65.  Socrates.  A  drama  in 
three  acts  and  in  prose. 

The    Ecci.esiast.     A   translation,    with 

comments. 
The  Song  of  Songs.    Translation,  with 

comments. 
Narrative    of    the    Death    of    the 

Jesuit    Berthier.     A    burlesque.    20 

pages. 
History  of   Russia   under   Peter   I. 

First  part,  one  volume. 
Memoranda    for   the  Biography  of 

the  Author,  written  by  Himself. 

A  semi-burlesque  narrative  of  his  con- 
nection with   Frederic  of  Prussia.     110 

pages. 
1760.     Aged  66.     Tancr^ide.    A  tragedy 

in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 
The  Scotch  Maiden.    A  comedy  in  five 

acts  and  in  prose. 


\ 


The  Plea  of  Ramponkau,  and  a  volume 

of   short  facetious   pieces   of   a  similar 

kind. 
The  Russian  at  Paris.  A  satirical  poem. 

188  lines. 
Vanity.     A  satirical    poem,     86    lines, 

against  Pompignan. 

1761.  Aged  67.  Mandate  of  the  Em- 
peror OF  China.  Burlesque  of  J.  J. 
Rousseau.     5  pages. 

Conversation  between  the  Abb:^ 
Gkizel  and  the  Superintendent 
OF  THE  Royal  Pleasures.  A  defense 
of  the  drama.    20  pages. 

Sermon  of  Rabbi  Akib.  Against  perse- 
cution.    14  pages. 

On  THE  VARIOUS  CHANGES  IN  THE  DRA- 
MATIC Art.     16  pages. 

The  English  Dra3ia.  Against  Shake- 
speare and  Otway. 

Horace,  Boileau,  and  Pope.  A  par- 
allel.   10  pages. 

A  Letter  from  Charles  Gouju  to  hi3 
Brothers.  Burlesque  of  intolerance. 
7  pages. 

1762.  Aged  68.  The  Right  of  the 
Seigneur.  A  comedy  in  three  acts  and 
in  verse. 

Sermon  of  the  Fifty.    Strong  plea  for 

deism.     30  pages. 
Eulogy  upon  M.  de  Cr^billon.   A  rival 

dramatist.    30  pages. 
Republican  Ideas.     Detached  reflections 

upon  government.    25  pages. 

1763.  Aged  69.  Treatise  upon  Toler- 
ance.    180  pages. 

Remarks  upon  Ge.xeral  History.  Sup-  ^ 

plemcnts  to  the  Essai  sur  les  Mocurs. 

130  pages. 
Saul.    A  burlesque  drama  in  five  acts  and 

in  prose. 
The  Catechism  of  an  Honest  Man.    A 

dialogue  upon  religion  between  a  monk 

and  a  man  of  the  world.     31  pages. 
Letters  of  a  Quaker  to  John  George. 

Burlesque  of  Pompignan.    24  pages. 
History  of  Russia.    Part  Second,  one 

volume. 

1764.  Aged  70.  Olympie.  A  tragedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Triumvirate.    A  tragedy  in  five 

acts  and  in  verse. 
The  Tales  of  William  Vad^.    Fifteen 

short  comic  tales  in  verse. 


636 


LIFE   OF  VOLTAIRE. 


^ 


Commentary  upon  Corneili.e.  Three 
volumes  of  notes  upon  Corneille's  works, 
published  for  the  benefit  of  his  grand- 
daughter. 

DiscouwsE  TO  THE  WELCHES.  A  bur- 
lesque oration  upon  French  vanity.  30 
pages. 

The  Philosophical  Dictionary.  Eight 
volumes. 

Doubts  Concerning  the  Will  of  Car- 
dinal DE  Richelieu.     140  pages. 

The  AVhite  and  the  Black.  A  bur- 
lesque romance.     20  pages. 

Pot-Poukki.  A  burlesque  of  existing  su- 
perstitions.    26  pages. 

Translation  of  Shakespeare's  Julius 
C^SAR.     In  three  acts  and  in  verse. 

Translation  of  Calderon's  Hera- 
CLius.     In  three  acts  and  in  prose. 

Twenty-Thkee  Articles  of  Literary 
Criticism.  Contributed  to  the  Liter- 
ary Gazette  of  Paris,  from  1764  to 
1766. 

1765.  Aged  71.  The  Ideas  of  La  Mothe- 
le-Vayer.  Against  superstition.  De- 
tached sentences.    5  pages. 

The  Decree  of  Alexis,  Archbishop 
OF  Novogorod-la-Grand.  Burlesque 
of  clerical  authority.     10  pages. 

Questions  concerning  the  Miracles. 
A  series  of  burlesque  letters.    170  pages. 

The  Two  Tubs.  A  comic  opera  in  three 
acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Philosophy  of  History.  After- 
wards placed  as  an  introduction  to  the 
author's  Essay  upon  the  Manners  and 
the  Spirit  of  the  Nations. 

The  Baron  of  Otranto.  Burlesque 
opera  in  three  acts  and  in  verse. 

1766.  Aged  72.  An  Essay  upon  Pro- 
scriptions, OR  Conspiracies  against 
Pkoples.  a  catalogue  of  the  atrocities 
of  intolerance.     25  pages. 

Essay  upon  the  Dissensions  of  the 
Churches  in  Poland.    30  pages. 

Narrative  of  the  Death  of  the 
Chevalier  de  la  Barre.     23  pages. 

Information  to  the  Public  concern- 
ing the  Parricides  imputed  to  the 
Calas  family  and  the  Sirvens.  134 
pages. 

Commentary  upon  the  Book  of  Crimes 
and  Penalties.  A  plea  for  humaner 
punishment  of  crime.    100  pages. 


The  Ignorant  Philosopher.  A  famil- 
iar review  of  the  various  ways  of  inter- 
preting the  universe  and  its  origin.  86 
pages. 

A  Little  Commentary  upon  M. 
Thomas's  Eulogy  of  the  Dauphin. 
Against  persecution  for  opinion's  sake. 
7  pages. 

Anecdotes  concerning  Belisarius. 
Amusing  satire  of  clerical  pretensions. 
15  pages. 

1767.  Aged  73.  The  Scythians.  A 
tragedy  in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Charlot,  or  the  Countess  de  Givrt. 
A  comedy  in  three  acts  and  in  verse. 

Extensive  Examination  of  Lord  Boi/- 
ingbroke.  a  summary  of  Bolingbroke's 
works.     187  pages. 

Questions  of  Zapata.  The  supposed 
questions  of  a  puzzled  and  doubting  stu- 
dent of  theology.     30  pages. 

The  Defense  of  my  Uncle.  Reply 
to  critics  of  his  Universal  History,  as 
if  by  a  nephew  of  the  author.  120 
pages. 

Letters  to  the  Prince  of  Brunswick 
UPON  Rabelais  and  Others.  A  de- 
fense of  deistical  authors.     101  pages. 

The  Man  with  Forty  Crowns.  A  bur- 
lesque romance. 

Literary  Courtesies.  Satire  of  the  en- 
emies of  philosophy.     100  pages. 

The  Dinner  of  Count  de  Boulainvil- 
LiERS.  Three  table-talks  upon  deism 
and  the  evils  of  superstition.     60  pages. 

Canonization  of  St.  Cucufin.  Bur- 
lesque of  sainthood  and  monkery.  30 
pages. 

Concerning  Panegyrics.  An  ingen- 
ious defense  of  Catherine  II.     14  pages. 

The  Ingenuous  Young  Man.  A  bur- 
lesque romance.     107  pages. 

1768.    Aged    74.    The   Age    of    Louis  • 

XV.     Two  volumes. 
The  Pyrrhonism  of  History.     Upon 
applying  to  tradition  the  test  of  proba- 
bility.   110  pages. 
The  Civil  War  of  Geneva.    A  bur- 
lesque poem  in  five  cantos. 
The    Princess    of    Babylon.     A  bur- 
lesque romance.     110  pages. 
The  Rights  of  Men  and  the  Usurpa- 
tions  OF  THE  Popes.      Historical  re- 
view of  papal  claims.    32  pagea. 


yj 


APPENDIX. 


637 


The  Theists'   Profession  op   Faith. 
Rather  a  catalogue  of  the  crimes  com- 
mitted   in    the   name    of   religion.      34 
pages. 
The  Banishment  of  the  Jesuits  from 
China.     Conversations  between  the  Em- 
peror  of   China  and  a  priest   upon   the 
claims  of  the  Christian  priesthood.     50 
pages. 
Dialogues    between  A.,    B.,    and   C. 
Seventeen    convei-sations   upon   religion 
and  politics,  between  persons  designat- 
ed by  those  letters.     160  pages. 
A    Sermon    preached    at    Bale.      In 
favor  of  the   brotherhood  of   men.     18 
pages. 
A  Homily  of  Pastor  Bourn.     Extol- 
ling the  moral  teaching  of  Jesus,  and 
rejecting   the  prodigies  related  of   him. 
12  pages. 
The  Snails  of  the  Reverend  Father 
l'Escarbotier.    Satire  of  spontaneous 
generation.     24  pages. 
Some  Singularities  of  Nature.    Upon 
natural    history.      Familiar     comments 
upon  ancient  errors.     110  pages. 
The    Man    of    Marseilles    and    the 

Lion.     A  satire  in  verse.     100  lines. 
The    Three   Emperors    in    the    Sok- 
bonne.     a  satire   in  verse,    11.5    lines, 
of  those  who  censured  Marmontel's  Bel- 
isarius. 
Instructions     to    Brother    Pedicu- 
ix)S0.    Upon  what  he  is  to  see  in  Pales- 
tine.     Broad   burlesque  of  ancient   le- 
gends.   10  pages. 
1769.      Aged  (75.      Perpetual    Peace. 
Intolerant   reltgion   the   cause  of  wars. 
46  pages. 
;  All  in  God.    A  Commentary  upon  Male- 
1      branche,  maintaining  that  God  works  by 
general  laws,  not  b}-  perpetual  interfer- 
ence.    20  pages. 
The  Gukbres,  or  Tolerance.    A  trag- 
edy in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 
The  History  of  Jenni,  or  the  Athe- 
ist AND  the  Sage.    A  romance.    120 
pages. 
Letters   of    Amabed.      A   tale  of  the 
Portuguese  Inquisitors  in  India,  by  one 
of  their  victims.     77  pages. 
Homilies  preached  in  London  in  176.5. 
Five   sermons    upon   religious   disputes. 
86  pages. 


An  Epistle  to  Boileau.    In  verse.    138 

lines. 
History  of  the  Parliament  of  Paris,   u 

One  volume. 
The    Cry    of   the   Nations.     Against 

papal  domination.     10  pages. 
God  and  Men.     Historical  review  of  re-   /, 

ligions.     217  pages. 
Supplement    to    the    Age    of    Louis    ^ 

XIV.     270  pages. 
Remonstrances  of  the  Body  of  Pas- 
tors of  the  G^vaudan  to  a.  a.  J. 

Rustau,    Snviss  Pastor  in  London. 

Satirical   reply  to   an   attack  upon   the 

deists.     15  pages. 
The  Adorers,  or  the  Praises  of  God. 

Conversation   between  two  fervent  and 

enlightened  deists.     31  pages. 

1770.  Aged  76.  Sophonisbe.  A  tragedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Refutation  of  the  System  of  Nat- 
ure. An  essay  afterward  joined  to 
the  Philosophical  Dictionary.  Reply  to 
Holbach.     13  pages. 

Translation  of  the  Poem  op  Jean 
Plokof.  a  plea  for  the  deliverance  of 
Greece  from  the  Turks.  Prose.  5 
pages. 

Epistle  to  the  King  of  China.  Sa- 
tirical poem,  154  lines,  in  the  familiar 
manner  of  Horace. 

Writings  on  behalf  of  the  Inhab- 
itants OF  Mount  Jura  and  the 
County  of  Ge.x.  Many  petitions, 
etc.,  on  behalf  of  his  neighbors.  142 
pages. 

Reasonable  Counsels  to  M.  Bergier. 
Reply  to  a  defender  of  superstition. 
31  pages. 

The  Lawsuit  of  Claustre.  Narrative 
of  priestly  villainy.     24  pages. 

1771.  Aged  77.  The  Mistake  op  Ar- 
ras. Narrative  of  the  case  of  the  Mont- 
baillis.    20  pages. 

The  Discourse  of  Anne  du  Bourg  to 
HIS  Judges.  Imaginary  speech  on 
the  scaffold,  against  persecution.  5 
pages. 

The  Letters  of  Mejimius  to  Cicero. 
Twenty-two  imaginarj-  letters,  present- 
ing the  Voltairean  philosophy  in  classic 
guise.     44  pages. 

Epistle  to  the  Romans.  Burlesque  of 
the  papacy.    41  pages. 


638 


LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 


The  Tocsin  of  Kings.  A  protest  against 
the  Turk,  written  for  Catherine  II.  7 
pages. 

Concerning  a  New  Epistle  of  Boi- 
LEAU  TO  M.  DE  VoLTAiRE.  Showing 
that  the  epistle  could  not  be  of  Boileau. 
10  pages. 

1772.  Aged  78.  The  Prude.  A  Moral 
Tale.    In  verse.    228  lines. 

Cabals.     A  Satire  in  verse.    180  lines. 

Systems.    A  Satire  in  verse.     118  lines. 

Essay  upon  Probabilities,  with  ref- 
erence TO  the  Administration  of 
Justice.    54  pages. 

Philosophical  Keflections  upon  the 
CASE  OF  Mademoiselle  Camp.  To 
show  the  imperfections  of  the  French 
legal  procedure.     9  pages. 

Some  Trifling  Audacities  of  M. 
Clair  on  the  Occasion  of  a  Pane- 
gyric OF  St.  Louis.  A  defense  of  the 
present  against  unjust  comparisons  with 
the  past.     13  pages. 

The  Pelopides.  A  tragedy  in  five  acts 
and  in  verse. 

The  Trustee  (Depositaire).  A  comedy 
in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

1773.  Aged  79.  The  Laws  of  Minos. 
A  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

A  Discourse  of    Advocate    Belleg- 

NIER.      A  defense  of  the  freethinkers, 

past  and  present.     15  pages. 
Historical    Fragments    upon    India. 

Exhibition  of  the  case  of  Count  de  Lally. 

226  pages. 
Tactics  {la  Tactique).     A  Satire  of  war, 

in  verse.    146  lines.    Compare  with  this 

powerful    poem    M.    Hugo's    centenary 

oration  upon  Voltaire. 

1774.  Aged  80.  A  Funereal  Eulogy 
of  Louis  XV.  Ingenious  censure  under 
the  guise  of  eulogy.     13  pages. 

To  the  Reverend  Father  in  God, 
Messire  Jean  de  Beauvais.  Satir- 
ical comments  on  the  bishop's  funeral 
oration  upon  Louis  XV.     6  pages. 

Dialogue  between  Pegasus  and  the 
Old  Man.  The  old  man  being  the  poet 
himself.  Satirical  poem  upon  his  own 
career.     178  lines. 

It  is  Necessary  to  take  a  Part,  or 
THE  Principle  of  Action.  Humor- 
ous conversation  upon  deism  and  athe- 
ism.   104  pages. 


The  White  Bull.    A  burlesque  romance. 

56  pages. 
The  Journey  of  Reason.    A  review  of 

the   triumphs   of  reason   in  the  various 

countries  of  the  world.     15  pages. 
Concerning  the    Soul,   by   Soranus. 

An  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  the  soul, 

as     if     by     Trajan's     physician.      22 

pages. 
Plato's  Dream.    Concerning  the  creation 

of  the  world.    5  pages. 
Barabec    and    thk    Fakirs.    A  satire 

of    the  East  Indian  self-tormentors.    5 

pages. 

1775.  Aged  81.  Don  Pedro.  A  trage- 
dy in  five  acts  and  in  verse. 

The  Cry  of  Innocent  Blood.  An  ap- 
peal to  Louis  XVI.  on  behalf  of  Etal- 
londe.     25  pages. 

Diatribe  to  the  Author  of  the  Eph:^- 
bi:^ride9.  Against  the  spoliations  to 
which  French  farmers  were  subjected. 
20  pages. 

The  Ears  of  Lord  Chesterfield.  A 
burlesque  tale.     30  pages. 

Observations  upon  the  Book  enti- 
tled Of  Man,  by  J.  P.  Marat.  A 
satirical  review.     9  pages. 

1776.  Agfd  82.  Chinese,  Indian,  and 
Tartar  Letters  to  M.  Paw.  A  re- 
view of  the  beliefs,  traditions,  and  relig- 
ious usages  of  Asia,  as  if  by  a  Bene- 
dictine monk.     85  pages. 

The  Host  and  Hostess.  Sketch  of  a 
divertisement  in  one  act,  prose  and 
verse 

The  Bible  Commented  upon  and  Ex- 
plained, by  several  Almoners  op 
the  King  of  Poland.    Two  volumes. 

A  Letter  to  the  French  Academy 
upon  Shakespeare. 

A  Christian  against  Six  Jews.  Satir- 
ical commentary  upon  the  Jewish  le- 
gends.    200  pages. 

Historic  Commentary  upon  the 
Works  of  the  Author  of  La  Hen- 
EiADE.  A  sketch  of  his  own  career. 
114  pages. 

Sunday,  or  the  Daughters  of  Minj^e. 
A  comic  tale  in  verse  upon  the  origin  of 
Sunday.    293  lines. 

1777.  Aged  83.    History  of  the  Es-  ■ 

TABLI3HMENT    OF    CHRISTIANITY.      135 

pages. 


APPENDIX. 


639 


Commentary  upon  Montesquieu's  Es- 
prit DES  Lois.     108  pages. 

Dialogues  of  Evhemerus.  Twelve  dia- 
logues, as  if  between  two  philosophers  of 
the  age  of  Alexander,  upon  all  the  high 
themes.     120  pages. 

The  Prize  of  Justice  and  Humanity. 
Suggestions  for  a  reform  of  the  crimi- 
nal law.     102  pages. 


Upon  the  Work  entitled  The  Life 
and  Opinions  of  Tristp.am  Shan- 
dy. A  slight,  not  appreciative  ^e^^ew. 
5  pages. 

1778.  Aged  83.  IrJink.  A  tragedy  in 
five  acts  and  in  verse. 

Agathocle.  a  tragedy  in  five  acts  and 
in  verse,  performed  in  1779  on  the  anni- 
versary of  the  author's  death. 


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